When Words Are The Sticks And Stones

Barbara: Remember on Tuesday when we asked what we would say to our 12-year-old selves if we could (and, wow, thank you for one of my favourite comments sections ever!)? Well, it got me thinking about something that someone actually did say to me in those vulnerable growing-up years, something which changed my life. And not for the better.

The reason I want to share this with you now is that it was certainly a turning point moment in my life, but also, more importantly, because I am finally and utterly over it.

Okay, so the words…

I got hooked on writing when I was pretty young. I mean, I loved to perform and direct and had huge plans for local theatre shows or fairs that my friends would help me organize for weeks and which then kinda fizzled out (I guess follow-through was not my strongest suit back then). But, more than that, my precious secret was that I was actually a writer. Scribbling first draft work into a notepad and then meticulously transcribing the story through my little portable typewriter. I amused myself by calling the typed version of my work my “copyright” (copy/write… get it??? Unfortunately, when my parents patronized me with delighted laughter about this malapropism—like I didn’t know what I was saying!—man, was I pissed. And embarrassed.) My coup was when I wrote a 60page novel at 13. No matter that it was a blatant rip-off of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, it was my own beautiful creation.

Barbara at 10

Two years later, I had high hopes for my English class. We were finally attempting creative writing and I was sure I was a shoe-in to ace it. I would finally bring my little secret to the light. I would be recognized. I would be renowned.

But the teacher had other ideas in mind. She took it upon herself to stand in front of the class one day and list all the people she believed to have genuine talent. As she pronounced the names, I nodded in recognition—yes, she was a great storyteller; yes, he had such a way with words—and waited with bated breath for my own name to be called. But she continued with her list, her eyes scanning the classroom, several times holding on me and then passing on, announcing on and on, name after name, until the names began to lose value—what? him??? He doesn’t know a simile from a metaphor!—until she was finished and ready to direct our attention to other English matters.

But wait! It doesn’t end there. As hurt and humiliated as I was (why are we humiliated by omissions that no one else would even notice?), I swallowed past it and carried on. Until a few days later, this same teacher called me into her office and told me—unbidden, mind—in a calm, clear voice that she understood that when she’d made her “talented writers” pronouncement, she’d noticed that I might have hoped that my own name would be called, but that she was sorry she just couldn’t do it. My memory after that is a blur: I think I nodded and kind of wandered out into the hall, trying desperately to hold it together.

I’m pretty sure, in the end, I kicked some creative writing butt in that class, earning high marks on all my pieces. But I let those strangely pointed words become the mantra to which I pursued (or didn’t) all my writing in all the years after that. I let those words sit on my shoulder and become my cross for so many years that it finally had no other choice but to decay and disintegrate. It wasn’t until the cross was gone that I realized that it was gone.

(I will also allow that years and years of writing practice—and now blogging—has helped to erase the onus.)

And I know we will all be outraged at this teacher’s cruelty (or at least that is the most common response when I share this story—which isn’t often), and we will wag our fingers at her casual damage, and we will pat my back (appreciated but truly not necessary) and comfort me. But I wanted to share this with you because I think, in many ways and in ongoing ways, we are always talking to our 12-year-old selves. Or at least we are trying to. And we ARE changing our personal histories by listening to our older, more mature selves and … well, getting over it.

Revenge is a dish best … left in the kitchen.

Deb: Barb, this is so poignant. I agree that we are always talking to our 12-year-old selves and I love this story. I certainly don’t love it for the pain it caused you, but rather for the lesson it taught you. You did it. You kept doing it!!! Do you know how many people would have never put pen to paper again? In this instance, you do not need to go back and talk to your 12-year-old self. Your 12-year-old self got it, I think. It just took some years of maturing to set it in stone. Well done. You should lay your head on the pillow and say Mrs. (insert teachers name), today I am a writer.

And In Recent News: Human Beings Continue To Amaze!

Deb: This was sent to me by the lovely Seana who is alway always finding inspiring and life affirming things—both in the world and in her heart. Please watch and be inspired.

My Facebook Friend’s An Alien

Deb: All this talk lately on the blog about the future and making connections with people has got me thinking about a far-reaching connection that, despite all the technological advances, I am still yearning to make. I am talking about our frenemies, the aliens. I’m talking your Martians, your Siriuns, your Moon people, your Uranians. As we can now literally reach across the planet, why not the universe? Where are my alien Facebook friends? I don’t have one single alien friend. I have some that seem not of this world, but that’s another story.

Deb's keychain

Full disclosure and I hope this concept is not alien to you—YOU KNOW, I HAD to do that—I believe in them. The aliens, I mean. I have never doubted it. It always seemed so shortsighted not to at least believe in the possibility of life on other planets. I figure, where does Earth get off thinking it is the centre of the universe? Does the earth think it’s Toronto!?!? Don’t get me wrong, I love me some Earth. Earth rocks. It’s my favourite of all the planets. But as I stare into the night sky I just cannot believe that we are ... alone.

Yes, I loved X-Files, let’s get that out of the way.

Is it just that the internet is so last millennium to the aliens that they don’t even bother? Or are they wishing they could connect with us too? Do they have WIFI?  Or are the aliens being coy? Shy? Do they need prodding? Maybe this very blog will open their minds and they will post anonymously and say witty and brainy things to us.

My love affair with aliens started with the 1951 version of The Day The Earth Stood Still. I have been besotted with aliens since. Maybe I was just besotted with Michael Rennie. At any rate, I loved the kind, wry, condescending Klaatu played by Mr. Rennie who despite his prejudice for the lowly earthling, found himself falling for us. I have been fascinated since the first time my Mom and I sat down to watch the movie together when I was a kid. We would curl up on the couch and scream, “Say it, lady, say it!!!” as Patricia Neil was backed up against the steel fence stricken with fear as Gort advanced. Despite the fact that Gort could disintegrate a tank in seconds with the flash of his eyesheild, he was not an aggressor. He only retaliated. Never took the first shot. Or first laser in this case. He wasn’t the kidnap and probe kind of alien which, let’s face it, really gave aliens a bad rap.  Hmmm maybe aliens invented the colonoscopy?

Should I change my password to Klaatu, Barada Nicto?  Is that the welcome our neighbours seek?

My real true love affair started as a kid. I would look up at the sky and I would know in my heart that we had friends out there and, despite media to the contrary, it never seemed to me a frightening concept. I was comforted by it. The thought of our little ball rolling around this endless space in time was far too isolating for me.

At any rate, if they are out there, I would love them to make themselves known. Let’s face it, if they are out there and they are as brilliant and advanced as we think they are AND they are evil, they would have dusted us centuries ago.  Maybe they are just a tad insecure and given all the bad earthling to alien movies and press, they just haven’t found a good way to make a peaceful foray into our world, what with Michael Rennie being dead and all.

Alien contact for Dummies. Someone should invent an app for that. I would pay top dollar.

I wait in peace.

Barbara: I love me some aliens too! I would be all over having them as my FB buddies, or weighing in on the blog about what they might say to their little alien selves. I agree with you, Deb, that if they could eviscerate us, they totally would have done it already. On the other hand, maybe they’re waiting until we do the job ourselves…

I also believe that alien worlds exist, but I have slightly different (and not nearly so hilarious) take: I feel that—if our human experience on earth is just a tiny blip in the HUGE picture of time—it’s entirely possible that these short blips of human activity could be happening all over the universe, but at VASTLY different time-frames. Maaaaaybe all this soul-stuff we’re feeling is us traveling from earth to earth over millennia, inhabiting one place after another until we wear out our welcome, disintegrate to nothing, and the planet continues without us. Maybe WE are the aliens. Hmmm … Alien for thought.

Five Crazy Things: Childhood Lessons

Barbara: Inspired by Linda’s question last week in the comments’ section, I wondered what we might say—if we could—to our 12-year-old selves. It doesn’t have to be deep, dark life lessons or game changers or anything like that, but whatever you think might be helpful (or weirdly interesting).

            To young Barbara:

1. Stop envying others’ tastes and choices and rely on your own ideas. Find your own path even if you have to go against what’s popular or cool. Start asking yourself what you like.

2. Speaking of which, don’t be afraid to not be cool. I mean, sorry to break it to you, but you will never, ever attain “cool” status. So just embrace that fact now and make your own rules.

3. Start paying really close attention in History and Geography classes—because they will both come in very handy when you grow up… And accept now that you really want to be a writer (because you can use the extra—and early—years of practice).

4. …and, no, you will never, in fact, miss acquiring those elusive math skills.

5. Start yoga as soon as it becomes all the rage. You will love it and it will get you through many stressful periods of heartache and frustration.

Deb:

To Young Deb:

1.  You are more than a body. Speak up. Say no. More than that say, “How dare you!”

2.  You are smart. Very smart. You just learn differently and they don’t have a name for it yet, so demand attention and respect.

3.  Try and stick with the piano. Please. Learn to read that music at whatever cost.

4.  Stop being afraid of water, the dark, and whatever else lurks in the recesses of your mind.

5.  Learn to balance a checkbook. Restrain yourself and your spending. You will thank yourself for it later. 60 pairs of shoes, as you will soon find out, amounts to 60 pairs of shoes. Find the balance in this shopping world.

Free Reign In the Summ'a

Barbara: There was a fun article in the Life section of the paper the other day (damned if I can find it to link), looking at the days of yore (ie the seventies and back) and the days of new, and comparing the differences in how children play. I know it’s a well-addressed theme—we got to play wherever and however we wanted and today’s kids are cloistered and over-protected—but still, I thought it would be fun to ask about your experiences and share our childhood memories … since it is summ'a, after all!!

Yeah, yeah, I am old enough to be from the generation of Free Play. When I think back to my childhood, I have vivid memories of hours and hours spent exploring the woods that abutted our suburban house. It was a large tract of land clearly slated for future development, but which languished in my time in wild, thorny, and verdant splendour. Hard dirt paths carved through the woods, ample clue that they were popular with more than just this curious 9-year-old child. But I don’t remember ever seeing anyone. I could take an entire artillery of flotsam with me—Barbie dolls, sand pails, plastic animals—and create new and amazing worlds in those woods. I could invent stories rife with travesty and betrayal and magic and deep abiding love. I could lie amid thigh-high grasses and just inhale the dry, hot, wildflower fragrance. I never worried about “strangers”; I cherished the bright rays of the sun; I didn’t imagine the possibility of fierce animals or broken bones or helplessness. I know I must have played in these woods with my friends, but strangely, that’s not what I remember. The memories that linger of this carefree time are the ones of me alone, responsible to no one, utterly unrestrained.

And then times changed and I grew up and so did the world and our fears and our woes. And I had my own children and had to make a choice (or choiceS: choice after choice after choice) on how we would raise them. Sadly, I couldn’t risk allowing them to utter abandon. On the one hand, I don’t agree with the mother in the article who laments, “The world is a different place!” It is in many ways, but not, I don’t think, in the pure mathematical logic of more psychopaths—because that’s who we fear when we fear the “stranger”. I imagine that the odds are about the same (with the exception, maybe, of a slightly higher population affecting the pure amount of them). On the other hand, I completely relate to the father who says something like, “But I can’t risk my child being the one child.” So I never walked the street without holding a hand and I never let them out of my sight (and so never lost them). That said, I was always aware of a kind of childhood injustice when it came to their freedom—the freedom necessary, in my opinion, to develop their imaginations and curiosity and problem-solving skills.

I asked the girls about how it was to grow up the way they did … and their answers surprised me. They have their own sweet memories of childhood abandon. For them, it was sweet summer days spent in the backyard creating worlds in their sandbox or in our garden. It was cold winter hours in the “mess” of a basement where we allowed their toys to have their own sort of wild free reign. They say they have no dearth of experience when it comes to freedom and independence. Even if I only remember hovering at the kitchen window making sure they were safe outside or tracking their basement safety from upstairs. Maybe a kid’s always gonna do what a kid’s gotta do!

What is your experience of childhood play—is it carefree abandon or cloistered restriction?

Deb: Mine was a combination of both, I would say. My parents certainly wanted to know where I was, but we were allowed to run free in the fields, and up at the cottage we spent endless hours by the creek, in the forest, and in the farmer’s field. We had a huge tree on the other side of the creek that we would climb every day as part of our ongoing game of Robin Hood. We would sneak into the abandoned (haunted, to our young imaginations) cottage that we were told not to enter but did anyway. Walks to “Big Rock” for the big climb and picking wild raspberries were all part of the daily fun. Our parents were secure in the knowledge that we would come home for meals, which we always did.

I will have to ask the boy if he had any such adventures that I did not know about. Sadly I was not as cool a parent when I became a Mom. I was, I am ashamed to admit, too worried about his safety to let go too too much. But I think the boy would tell tales of tobogganing on the big hill, building snow forts, and climbing the next-door neighbour’s tree. The toughest and best thing I ever did was letting go enough for him to have camp experiences. After one session, I settled into letting go and trusting that he was going to be okay. Also, having a pool has adventure built in and I think he remembers it that way. I hope the fact that I walked him to school till he was shaving does not colour his memories of childhood abandon! :-)

Phil sent me this and I had to include it. Credits, anyone???

Into The Continuum: Friendships Past, Present ... and Future

This post is part of the Visions of the Future bloggers network - a group of bloggers inspired by the new TV series Continuum. The one hour police drama tells the story of Kiera Cameron, a regular cop from 65 years in the future who finds herself trapped in present day Vancouver with eight of the most ruthless criminals from the future, known as Liber8, loose in the city. In the collection of blog posts, various writers share their vision of the future and how they would deal with the challenges. Head over to the Continuum website to catch the other posts and learn more about the series.

The future Keira Cameron on Continuum

Barbara: The people behind the hot new TV show, Continuum, asked us to ponder friendship and trust, both present and future. On the surface, this show is a thriller about a police officer who, through a radical terrorist act in 2077, gets transported in time to 2012 and must save her own future. But deep down this is a compelling, believable exploration of how our beliefs, expectations and hopes are also coloured by our times (aka our experiences). They got us thinking: how has modern technology affected our friendships from the past into the present, and how will the dynamics continue to evolve into the future? What do we think the future holds for our closest relationships?

Deb: I had a BFF when I was a very little girl with whom I have remained close to this day. Of course in those days she was, simply, my best friend. We were inseparable. And inseparable in the 50’s and 60’s meant “inseparable”—face to face, voice to voice, heart to heart.

Technology such as it was then, brought people together. If we wanted to listen to music, we played records or the transistor radio and listened to it together. It was a shared thing. The phone was also a wonderful tool for connection with friends but, as was the era, my time was strictly limited by my well-intended parental units. The only other authority figure in my life at that time was the streetlights which would come on midstride, mid-game, stopping cold a good round of “What time is it, Mr. Wolf”?  They were glorious, sweet times and I loved the connection of that period to each of the humans in my life.

I will never forget the day when my best friend and I skipped up the street, singing and holding hands, only to be stopped in our tracks: my house was brandishing a Sold sign on it. Yes, it had been for sale, but in kid world, that sale was never going to happen. It had been weeks, and no bites ... until bang. It is my first ever memory of weeping my guts dry. My best friend and I clung to each other in the hopes that when my parents saw how distraught we were they would rip the Sold sign up and use it for kindling. But as bad as they felt for us, as you can imagine, they were not swayed. It was my first glimpse into the world of adult decisions that were between the adults and not shared. This was not an era for “family sharing” dinners. They had made a grownup decision. Because they were grownups. We were ten.

My friend and I vowed to keep in touch and we did. Our parents did their best and drove us back and forth to each other’s homes. Sometimes, as we got older, we would take the bus. We were a good forty-five minutes from each other, which in those days was like traversing the Cabot Trail from one end to the other. We stayed in touch more or less right through high school, but the “less” started to overtake the “more” as we each forged new friendships and lives. After a while we lost contact altogether. Then in our thirties we ended up working together on a Movie-of-the-Week. The depth of how out of touch we were was illustrated by the fact that we were both shocked to see that the other one had gone into the acting field. We were happy to see each other but, for my part, there was awkwardness and guilt. I can’t speak for my friend but, as lovely as it was to see her, we just didn’t fall back into “it”. We met a few times and it was lovely, but we did not reconnect with those “best friends” of our youth.

Cut to: The internet with all its wily connecting ways! So, suddenly, there we were, my old best friend and I, skipping through cyber space holding hands. As we started to email and Facebook, we found that it brought us back to that comfortable place. Memories were brought forth, photos were shared, and bonds were reformed. The internet had replaced our end-of-the-day conversations with each other on our princess phones. This time we were free of the sound of, “Okay, Missy, off the phone!”  And as it turns out, the internet was doing just what the phone had done. It was making us yearn for each other, for that face-to-face, voice-to-voice connection that we would have the next day. And so we started connecting in person and spending time alone, with our husbands and with our mutual friends.

My old best friend is just one example of the reconnections I have made that have delighted me and brought my past into my future in gentle way. The internet has brought me to a connected place. I know the prevailing thought is that the internet disconnects us, but for me it has been the opposite. It has freed up my time with its shorthand ways to do the things I want to do, and to be there for the people I care about. And if an email seems in any way a call for help, I just pick up the phone and really connect.

But I wonder, will it be that way for a generation of people who never had the intense face-to-face? Will they crave what they have never really known? I like to think they will. We are human after all, with the need for real human contact. Somehow, I think we will instinctively seek it out. We can’t help it.

Barbara: I’ve told you guys before how I struggled to establish true female friendships for a long time, committing instead to my relationship with Phil and being a mom, and not really understanding that platonic friendships took an equally committed approach—one with as concerted efforts in sharing (I was a terrible sharer) as there are in listening (I was a great listener).

Like Deb, I certainly have found that blogging and Facebook and email and everything technology-related has only helped me in my efforts to embrace—and trust—sharing. And it has felt very much like a wild and happy ride embracing this new tech-world. When I think of myself in my 30s and remember being a working mom and recall how I felt back then—utterly in love with my family, and certainly able to have a great time with friends, but somehow, intrinsically, lonely, I want to take my hat off to technology and really celebrate all that it has brought me in terms of connecting with people. Today, I feel more in touch, more “heard”, more a part of the greater fabric. Yet when I consider it, I can’t ignore all the cautionary warnings about what might become of us if we continue to immerse ourselves into this relatively new form of communication.

So, in the spirit of considering my life experiences and thinking forward, here’s a re-cap of what I believe to be the benefits of modern technology so far today: I get to hear from friends I would never otherwise keep up with; I get to meet new friends and like-minded (open-minded) souls from around the world—again, people I would never otherwise meet—I have a forum for my own voice, which is intrinsic to my well-being (call me egotistical, but I want to tell you stories and I want you to hear them, and I want to hear your stories and I want us to talk about them and what they mean to us); through the unflinching honesty of so many others online I have daily opportunities to have my world or personal vision skewed in new directions; I get to live vicariously through many more people; I get to “see the world” in more colours than ever before; the world feels smaller and therefore it feels more possible that we might take more responsibility for it in the future—we have the chance to care more, understand more, relate more, accept more, take less for granted, appreciate more.

But on the other hand, there are also many naysayers. Even optimists bring up legitimate concerns about the future of our relationships if we continue in this artificial world of technology: we might, in fact, care less, understand less, relate less, accept less, take more for granted. Just the other day I read this article lamenting the downfall of eye contact. Katrina Onstad—whose writing I love and respect—bemoaned how, because of our attachment to technology, we are seemingly losing our most vital connector: what and how we see. In fact, I remember being impressed many years ago when I read about a study that discovered that when we listen to others, we are wrong about their true meaning at least 70% of the time! We misinterpret significance, intent, and motivation more often than not. Of course, there’s that other study that tells us that we read people correctly 80% of the time when we subconsciously interpret their body language. So it’s kinda hard to dispute that we need to see each other in order to truly understand each other. Through only writing our reality and not engaging in reality, we have the option to offer only certain, idealized elements of ourselves, to (as Katrina O. says) “curate” our own lives. And also, sometimes we lie (even to ourselves)! I know I’ve been guilty of intellectualizing and then expressing some important aspect of myself only to either change my mind the next day or—more likely—have someone who knows me really well call me out on it and say, “Bullshit!”

So, with these basic parameters on the board (and please add your own here), where might we be in 65 years when it comes to how we communicate in our relationships?

Maybe we’ll be in touch with every single person on the planet. A kind of technological beehive where our community needs outweigh our individual needs, and food and healthcare and environmental safeguards will be distributed accordingly (I’m an optimist). Maybe there will be no borders. Why do we need them, what are we protecting if not our mutual survival? Maybe, in order to sustain our friendships, we will have gone so deeply into technology that we will no longer need the visual cues that were once so imperative to our survival on the savannahs. Maybe the “bullshit” meter will be an automatic part of our daily lives: a scanner in our computers (whatever those will look like then!) that can measure our heart rates and pupil dilations and tell us, “You are way off base with this assumption,” or “Bang on, sister!” We can laugh about it with each other in our virtual coffee klatches (hello, “The Old Middle Ages”). Or maybe we can turn that setting off so that we’re operating not on “absolute-truth-mode” but on “philosophy-aka-‘what-if’-mode”.

Deb: What if at some point in time we have the ability to read each other’s emotions? Not by a glance or a smile, but through the kind of technology that can enable us to detect a quickening pulse or a reddening face! It sure would save time on bad pickup lines. I also wonder about the possibility of body scanners that work as we enter a shoe store or clothing shop, reminding us of what we chose last time and what we might be interested in purchasing today. I remember seeing this in the movie Minority Report and thinking, “Yeah, hell yeah, I’ll take that!” As middle age has crept closer I have found myself fantasizing about what might be available to us in the future and, believe me, it has been a battle in my brain between privacy issues and convenience issues—as I get older, convenience is starting to pull ahead of the pack, I am ashamed to say.

Barbara: So what about trust? Would we trust more or less if we had access to everyone’s emotional state through scanners and readers? We can know someone we love is frustrated, scared, bored and still be shocked and heartbroken if, because of these things, they betray us. Having their emotional states tracked scientifically or communicating in other visual ways won’t preempt us from living with the burdens of loss and pain or with the highs of joy and accomplishment. Technology can’t prevent us from living in the moment, even if that moment looks utterly different 65 years from now than it does in this moment right now. We will still rejoice and trust and celebrate and love. That’s who we are. For feel better or worse.

So what do you see in our future ... of friendship or human relationships in general?

Quick Video: Interview With A Young Self

Deb: First of all, the foresight of this young man blows my mind. I wonder, did he forget about it for years and rediscover it, or was he waiting until just the right amount of years had gone by? These kinds of things always blow the creativity of the human mind out of the water! Enjoy and put on your own thinking caps. It got me to thinking I can tell you.

A Shared Birthday

Deb: I LOVE my birthday. My husband started this particular birthday as per ush, with “Birthday” by the Beatles blasting as I emerged from my cozy bed. I did, as is my wont, proceed to dance about the house punctuated with the joy of another birthday bestowed. Lovie me m’ birthday, I do! I followed my birthday dance workout with my husband’s blueberry pancakes and tea.

Then my husband and I got on our bikes and partook of a long and lovely ride through the ravine below us, and it was sweet and it was warm, and it was sun and shade, and fuck my legs hurt! Come on legs!!!! Why are you hurting? You work out with me every day!!!! Is a bike so different? And, if it is … why? Or ... tell me beforehand. Warn me! The shock of it freaked me out. Okay ... on with the story.

My husband laid out the world of possibilities for me on my special day and I chose peace. My original plan for my birthday was a city tour brimming with new experiences. But on the day, on the actual day, I knew what I needed for my 58th birthday and gift ... thy name was peace. And I woke up and grabbed me a piece of that peace. I did some sitting and some reading and some puppy belly rubbing. I had a day of nothing special and everything special. It was a huge revelation for me that I actually chose ... whatever! Come what may. In the moment. Peace baby peace.

Birthday. Birthday. Gift to me.

So. With a day spent outside and in our pool, with my kisser in a book and my toes in the sun, I reveled. And afterwards went willingly into the shower to fancy myself up for dinner. And we visited my parents on our way to dinner and I said to my Mom (given that she was shocked to see us) that I just wanted to see them on my birthday. Her response was, “Well, I was the first one to see you on your birthday!” True. I had celebrated with Mom and Dad a few days before at a BBQ at our home, but I just wanted to give them a smooch, you know?

And we arrived at our wonderful dinner, after a parking episode which deserves it’s own blog but for the moment will go unrecorded. Suffice it to say, we had many laughs, managed our way uphill to the restaurant, ate well, chatted much, and finished the evening with a dessert devoted to the lady of the hour—Nasim—which was the name on my birthday dessert. And so Nasim, if you are out there, and were perhaps treated to a Happy Birthday Deb cake, I can only hope you appreciated the mistake as I did—with some howling tearful laughter and the thought that maybe we were somehow meant to connect.

Happy Birthday, Nasim! Deb loved your cake!

Barbara: Deb, as you know, this birthday perfection—and especially the final (hilarious) touch—made me so happy for you. But the one (trivial) question I never asked you: is it possible that Nasim is a guy??? This makes the idea of a stranger getting YOUR cake even funnier!

Five Crazy Things: Skills

Barbara: Rigel suggested this one for us (thanks, Rigel!): what are the five skills you would want to learn?

1.     Master chef cooking

2.     Real and proper horseback riding

3.     Rock climbing (but without my fear of heights)

4.     Real and proper gardening

5.     Marine…well, not “biology” because that’s a bit more than a skill, but a marine something in that I know and understand underwater life. (help me out here, people!)

Deb: So so so so so so so so soososososososo many it’s hard to list. And by “skill” I am going to   list that which I would love to be really good at!

1.  Piano

2.  Guitar

3.  Horseback riding (with Barb and Jo!!!)

4.  Sewing skills

5.  Dancing

Grateful For Gratitude

Barbara: Yes, last week was my birthday—and I just want to thank you all soooo much for your lovely birthday wishes and thoughts. I had a really beautiful special day with my closest beloveds (except my younger daughter who had to be away for the weekend). It was a day of enjoying life, being spoiled … and practicing gratitude.

Remember back in the nineties when books about gratitude were all the rage? We were encouraged to be grateful every day for something. Even—and maybe especially—something small (the smell of the garden, a bubble bath, a fresh strawberry, a good cup of coffee, etc). Then we were reminded to think of the people and events around us for which we were grateful. On bad days, this might be more difficult, but for just about all of us, there is definitely someone out there in whose light we can revel for a few grateful moments.

The philosophy behind this practice was that if we did that small bit of work every day then we would slowly, inevitably, shift the colours of our lives until that lovely rosy hue would outshine the dark. I never ended up reading the bestselling books, but I certainly listened rapt as those who did expounded on the theory. It made sense. And I started to become aware of my own gratitude and how deeply I felt it and how, in many ways, gratitude was one of the most consistently achievable feelings of “good” that I could attain. Even on a really shitty day.

I am truly grateful that gratitude has been a consistent theme on this blog and that our readers so quickly and readily jump on the “gratitude bandwagon” whenever we bring it up. So I hope you don’t mind if I revisit it one more time??? I want to share a small experience with you and then see where we land afterward:

For my birthday dinner, we went to an amazing little restaurant called Keriwa Café. It is a cozy little place, the kind that makes you feel very much like you’ve walked into a (stylish) friend’s farmhouse kitchen. The air is perfumed like a warm smokehouse and you picture not a bland city alley outside its kitchen doors, but a vast farmland, filled with all things good and clean and delicious. The server was a charming guy who took amazing care of our every need, and who made us feel like we were already on comfortable terms—maybe like he was the friend of a friend (ie not overly-familiar, but also not cold and standoffish). The food was divine: earthy and sophisticated in equal measure, sublime combinations of herbs and sauces, and the absolute truth of flavour that comes from the freshest and best quality ingredients. We were in raptures with every single mouthful, from the homemade sourdough bread at the start (washed down with the loveliest signature cocktails) to the gift of the airiest truffle I’ve ever eaten at the end. Now I’m telling you all this not to try and sell my skills as a restaurant reviewer (although, for me, that wouldn’t be the worst job!), but to underscore my point about gratitude.

As we were eating, we shared our sentiments with our server at every course. We mmmed and ahhhed and made sure he knew that we thought everything was delicious and perfect. We weren’t ridiculously effusive, but consistently grateful. And he was … surprised! Not because we found the food wonderful—this restaurant is run by one of the best new chefs in the city—but because we were sharing our love. On the drive home afterward, Stefanie expressed her own sense of gratitude that we had taught her how important it is to communicate gratitude if one truly feels it. She has been able to see just how deeply it affects people, while also realizing—through the sincere surprise at the restaurant—that this means it is maybe all too rarely communicated. She reminded me again that, while she considers herself a fervent foodie, she maybe wouldn’t have had the courage to rave. She is “too shy”. But this experience—and others like it over her growing years—has taught her to keep trying to work at sharing her gratitude. Because it literally makes everyone feel good.

So, if we’re going to revisit this theme again, here’s what I’d love to hear from you:

1.     Are you too shy to share your gratitude with strangers?

2.     If you do share your gratitude, what is the response?

3.     And, how do you feel when people express gratitude toward you?

Deb: Well, you know me. Not too shy about anything. I share my gratitude easily and frequently. I also share my gratitude silently in the morning and the evening for a day lived and a day woken up to. When I share my gratitude I am ALWAYS moved by people’s reactions. Always. Some are shy about it, some are gobsmacked by it, but they are always grateful for it. When people express gratitude towards me ... well ... hmmmnnn .... I am getting better. Much better. I am starting to be able to look people in the eye and say how happy and grateful I am for their gratitude. But that one remains the toughest. As I have said in other posts, I love to be the bestower, not so much the bestowed upon. But I am getting better. It is something I have worked really hard on. Grace is the word I use when someone expresses their gratitude to me. Be graceful, I tell myself. And it is working for me.

Visitors To Our Garden

Deb: Barb called to wish me a Happy Birthday yesterday and at the end of the conversation casually said, “Are you sending me something for the blog later?”  “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,”  said I, thinking it was Wednesday and secure in the knowledge that I had all day tomorrow (Thursday) to write a blog. Suddenly it hit me that it was indeed Thursday already. But ... so entranced was I in birthday relaxing splendor that Barb and I both agreed that I would not do a formal post. After all, it was late afternoon and I had to get ready for our lovely dinner out.

So I am posting a tiny little video and photos of three visitors to our garden who dropped in and stayed for a while. First off were two lovely butterflies partnered on a cornflower soaking up the sun. And the second was a first for us in the 13 years we have lived here. A wee duck came a calling, had a swim, and left. The ducks arrival was much to my delight and much to the Bairn’s chagrin. But it was loverly. Ducky, in fact.

As I write this I am having a wonderful birthday and thanking you each and every one for the wonderful birthday wishes!

Five Crazy Things: Birthday Day

Barbara: Happy birthday, Deb!!! Okay, in honour of your important day, I would like to propose we imagine our perfect birthday days. There’s only one rule: it must be ALL ABOUT YOU. Yes, I know we all want peace and love and food in bellies everywhere, but if you could have ONE day all about you, and no other rules applied (like time or money or logistics), what would you do? In my day, Phil and my girls are along for all of it (well, not the girls on #6…)

1.     Breakfast in Paris: chocolate croissants and café au lait (even though normally I can't digest coffee. See how this works?!)

2.     2-hour hike in the Rockies along one of its pristine lakes.

3.     Swimming and snorkeling off a remote beach in Hawaii.

4.     3-hour road trip through the Sonoma Valley.

5.     Dinner at French Laundry with all my favourite people (our treat).

6.     (okay, I’m cheating) Falling asleep on a super-comfortable bed on a beach by the ocean under the stars and moon (no bugs, no creatures to worry about).

Deb: Thanks, Barb! Yay, it’s m’birthday. How I loves me birthday!

Okay in my perfect world...

(I actually did a perfect world birthday a few years back. Sat in a piazza in Florence for lunch with husband and boy, watching people on a carousel as we drank champagne and ate bread and cheese! It was like a glorious dream!)

1.    Waking up in a villa in Tuscany for a real Italian breakfast on the patio with my husband, the boy and his girl.

2.    With money as no object, the afternoon would be spent shopping. I would buy lovely things for me and gifts for Colin, boy, and girl.

3.    Looking out the window of The Royal Scotsman luxury train, with a glass of red wine in my hand, dressed to the nines, with my vintage Louis Vuitton makeup bag by my side as the Scottish country side drifts by us.

4.    High in the treetops in our Treehouse apartment with the constellations above us and the ocean or lake below. Ahhhhhhh, treehouse.

5.    Spending the day having one more moment each with all the people I have loved and lost.

Birthday Present

Barbara and Deb: Deb and I have been sooooo busy lately that we haven’t had even a minute for official blog-business talk amongst ourselves. The craziness of our lives lately has reflected in many ways: we’ve missed reading your blogs (sorry! we’ll be back), we’ve let a few things slide around our “house” here, and we never got around to talking about the next steps we want to take. Life is like that, huh?

Well, yesterday we finally had a chance to take stock and ask some questions about where we want to go next and how we want to do it.

So, first things first.

As you may have noticed, there are ads on our blog. If I remember correctly, we decided to include the ads because Blogher is the host and they’re such a big network and we thought it might a) help broaden our readership and b) maybe generate a bit of income toward some of the work a blog requires. But, as most “practical” decisions in our lives, that went out the window when we realized there was a little bit of cash in the kitty and that we might need to decide what to do with that cash: divvy it up, let it ride, go out for lunch, etc, etc…

It took us all of ten seconds of discussion to realize we could donate the money! Now, of course, Deb and I donate to many worthy causes in our respective lives, and proudly so, but we didn’t just want to make a random decision when it came to donating the Blogher ads revenue. This was a trickier conversation—we didn’t want to begin a complex discussion every year as to which charity would best deserve it because, of course, all of them deserve it (even if it is a modest amount, it’s the principle, right?).

Then Deb made what I think is a genius and lovely suggestion: what if we looked back over the year that we’ve had in our blogiverse and make our decision based on the wondrous and magical (and, frankly, miraculous) and unexpected direction that this blog has taken us and then give back to that particular world? And if we look back over our last year in terms of “organic” development, then it’s obvious that, without the blog, we would never have gone to Costa Rica (thanks again, Gift of Happiness!) and without the Gift of Happiness, we would never have discovered Pack for a Purpose, the charity that encourages travellers to bring gifts to the country they’re visiting.

And I made another lovely suggestion (if I do say so myself): what if we made our yearly donation in the week of our shared birthdays—which, as many of you know—is the end of this week?

In the years to come, we would like to go where the blog organically leads us and make donations based on that our experiences.

So there you have it: Pack for a Purpose has received a small donation from us this year—and we give that amount in honour of all of YOU. It can be a birthday present from all of us to all of us.

Five Crazy Things: Celebrating Your Country

Deb: What are the top five things you like to do to celebrate your country’s birthday? As I write this, it is July 1^st—CANADA DAY—and in three days it is Independence Day in the U.S. We would love to hear about any and all countries and your dates and traditions!

1.    Have our wee Canadian flags all around the property

2.    Family picnic around our pool!

3.    Take a moment to be grateful for living in freedom.

4.    Using all our vintage Canadian glasses and napkins.

5.    Eat drink and be happy that summer is here!!!!!!!!!!

 Barbara:

1.    Despite the fact that this is a major community holiday, I LOVE just spending it with the family doing quiet "together" stuff, knowing it’s a holiday and no one will expect anything from us.

2.    Biking through the city!

3.    Fireworks (but in the last few years, mostly heard and not seen from our backyard—while Chaplin cowers).

4.    Gay Pride parade! Again, don’t often go anymore, but something about knowing it’s taking place not far from us and seeing the images on TV makes me feel proud and excited for a compassionate/accepting future that celebrates everyone.

5.    Improvised meals (we almost always forget that the grocery stores are closed and so we have to make stuff up. This year it was gourmet burgers and sweet potato fries for lunch at a most delicious b-b-q place in the middle of our 3-hour bike ride, then for dinner, a thrown-together bean salad with diced cucumbers, fresh mint, canned artichoke hearts, shaved lettuce, sliced sundried tomatoes, and a garlic-lemon dressing. Mmmmm).

Talent As Oysters

Deb: There is a theory that women are often attracted to powerful men. According to statistics, power is right up there with oysters in its power to seduce. For me, it’s not power, but talent.

One of the traps of my particular business is that often married or attached actors tend to fall in love with their leading ladies or leading men during production. More often than not though, actors tend to fall for the character in the piece, not the person playing it. But the damage, or at least the conflict, is still there. It’s tough to separate the real from the unreal. The worlds of theatre, television and film are sooooo insular during production. When actors talk about becoming a family during the run of a play or a TV series or film it has a good deal of truth to it. 

When you are in the thick of it, working twelve hour days on a set, or spending endless days in rehearsals, it does become like a family. In a wonderful way, it is a good thing and is part of the appeal of the acting world. But in another way, it can be a dangerous thing because the world you are creating while in production is a false world in many respects. It comes with no responsibility outside the direct work related to it, like learning your lines, going to fittings, etc. There are no bills to pay, no runny noses to wipe, no money arguments to be had. The other actors fall into this parallel world with you and everything becomes art. Depending on the degree of passion and sex in the show, combined with your relationship status, it can become downright risky. You do a scene with someone, it goes well, egos and adrenaline are running hot and ... well, you get the picture. In the film and TV day, your only responsibilities lie between action and cut, and the rest of the day you are free to have fun, eat catered food, and bond with the new members of your showbiz family.

When I first met my husband, although his talent was clear to me, I also saw a very shy introverted person with whom I perceived to have nothing in common. Romance was not on my radar. Then. He started acting and improvising and he proceeded to blow my mind. I remember my “uh-oh” moment very clearly. He was doing a corporate gig that I had cast him in and was playing a very outgoing, aggressive, assertive boss, qualities he did not possess in real life. He was hilarious and commanding in the role. I was smitten. The real Colin was painfully shy and quiet as a mouse and certainly not like any man I had ever been attracted to. But I fell into the trap. I became a stereotype. I fell in love with his talent. Fortunately for me, there was a wonderful man behind all that talent whom I was destined to spend my life. But at that point in time, I had no way of guessing that fact. His talent had hooked me. I was reduced to a doting, obsessed fan. Which was technically not cool, as I was his boss.

Over the years we have come to the point where our admiration for each other’s talent is just a given. I won’t say we take our mutual admiration for granted, but we just take it as fact. It’s simply our skill-set which we use to make our living, just as everyone does in their various professions. But then every once in a while...

Last week I went up to see The Colin and Brad Show at CasinoRama, which is about an hour and a half north of Toronto. I don’t see the shows too often as I am very busy with my own responsibilities. But whenever I can and when the gig is close to home, I go. I had not been in a while and was happy to see that they had come up with new games and ideas, which added to my enjoyment. Before the show, we chatted as couples do about an upcoming gig we had together, a repair in our home that required attention, and car work that needed to be done. Then he grabbed his show clothes and headed down to the sound check and I kissed him and wished him “broken legs”.

A short while later I was sitting in the audience in the middle of the show. My stomach hurt from laughing and I was enthralled. My heart was pounding and I was falling in love again with my husband’s sheer talent. I was staring up at the stage in awe. I was a fan. Because we do fall in love with talent. That’s why we become fans. But as fans we usually never get to really know who these people are, outside of their talent. They could be jerks but we don’t care. Their talent is our siren song. And sometimes the siren’s call can get an actor in big trouble. But this night, it was my husband whose talent I was besotted with. And I was secure in the knowledge that after 24 years, this talented shy character was the whole package. I had nothing to fear. So I sat there laughing and pining, wishing I had an autograph book.

Barbara: Awwww. Oh my god, Deb, this was a sexy piece!

I have to admit, I am also attracted to talent. I hadn’t really connected the two, because in my mind meeting Phil was about "love at first sight". But the truth is, in our early days, there really was an awful lot of flagrant talent wielding too. We were in theatre class together at an arts college (before university) and were cast in the first play of the season as part of a modern “Greek chorus”, intermittently singing throughout the play to the dulcet tones of Phil’s guitar strumming. Yeah, it was hot. So was watching him perform, so was building sets with him (is there anything quite as powerfully sexy as a man with a tool belt and the skills to know how to use it?), so was getting to know him over covert coffees between classes.

Now, even though Phil and I rarely cross paths in the “talent arena”, I do go weak when he describes a great day at work that really made use of his skills. My ongoing respect for his talent definitely works to fuel the mystique. I never thought about it before, but I guess I am a bit of a power slut!