Some First Rules

It should be stated at the outset that I have never been very good at following rules.

The first rule you learn when ice climbing is that you are not allowed to fall. This rule sounds funny, as mountain climbing tends to instigate a fair amount of falling. But when climbing ice, you are wearing and carrying many very sharp, pointy items that can do a lot of damage in a fall.

I have recently learned that the first rule in cancer, much like ice climbing, is not to get cancer. While eminently a wise rule, it is one that many have no control over. I recently fell into the camp of those who failed to heed the first rule in cancer.

The second rule in cancer is always to catch it early. I am happy to report that I complied with this rule and succumbed (albeit somewhat reluctantly) to the influence of my talented urologist, who, despite my misgivings, discovered cancer on my prostate. That was February 21, 2024, and since receiving that unwelcome news, my life has been whirling through the Alberta Healthcare system.

I know it is a common pastime to complain about how bad our healthcare system is in Alberta. I, for one, have been reticent to participate in this futile waste of energy, as my experience around the world in coffee has shown me what healthcare looks like in so many other countries; we have nothing to complain about. With that said, the system is definitely geared to responding promptly to patients with cancer.

Only seven weeks expired, to the day, from my biopsy results to my surgery, and I was under the Ai assisted robotic knife at the Royal Alex Hospital. As I sit here and type, it has only been fifty-nine days since I discovered I have cancer, and in two days, I get the blessed catheter and staples out of my body! What a relief that will be.

In short, I am damn lucky. The early detection of my prostate cancer and its subsequent removal all but assures (98%) me of a cancer-free existence, at least for the next couple of decades.

Trust me when I say that getting cancer at fifty-five was not on my bucket list. I have been poked and prodded by the most wonderful practitioners more in the last two months than the rest of my life up to this point. And I am thankful. I would be lying if I said it hasn’t been challenging. Cancer is one of those words that forces you to take deep breaths when directed at you. We all know people who have had or have cancer. You never expect it to be you, which truthfully is silly, as we all get “cancer” every day, but under normal conditions, our bodies know how to deal with rouge cells until one day they don’t.

Along with the prostate, Dr. St. Martin removed the lymph nodes that were attached to my offending organ. Those lymph nodes were sent away for analysis, and I am happy to report that from my reading of that report, the cancer remained localized to the prostate. So, I guess I am now a cancer survivor? That’s what makes me very lucky. I am relatively young, just turned fifty-five, and in decent physical shape, which helps tremendously in recovery. The removal of my prostate essentially removed the cancer from my body. I won’t need radiation or chemotherapy, which are brutally hard on our bodies (as I have been told). So, without being flippant, I won the cancer lottery; if there is such a thing, we caught it early, cut it out, and life goes on. There will be ongoing consequences of not having a prostate, but there are tactics to deal with those, and I am not dying. So, while I continue my life-long trend of not following rules, I got lucky with this one.

Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t all daisies and puppies. The past ten days have been filled with pain like I have never experienced, too little sleep, and way too much new knowledge of bodily fluids. Along with the pain has been the support that I have felt from the healthcare system and so many people in my life who have shown me love and care along the way. I am an impatient man, always have been, and I am impatient to return to normal. I keep being told to take it easy, slow down, and let your body heal. I suck at all of that.

I have been reading Dr. Peter Attia’s book Outlive: The Science and Art of Longevity while I convalesce. It has been a very interesting read. My accountant gave it to me just before surgery. Attia, a former oncologist and surgeon, is now focused on helping his patients live a proactive life to reduce their chances of ending up in the medical system. He talks about the four horsemen that come for us all: Cancer, Alzheimer’s, Diabetes and Heart Disease. All of these maladies take long periods of time to present themselves in our bodies, and there are many strategies and tactics that we can take to avoid or at least delay the onset of these often fatal diseases.

One of the best strategies for dealing with Cancer is early detection. This means discovering the rouge cells before they spread throughout the body to other organs. This is when cancer is difficult to deal with. I guess that is what prompted me to write this little blog post. This is only to encourage anyone reading this to get screened as advised. It is so easy to dismiss or ignore the advice to get your PSAs looked at, get a pap smear, or get a colonoscopy. These seem like trivial inconveniences, but the sooner you identify any issues, the better your outcomes will be.

I know I will be more diligent now regarding other screenings. I think that having one form of cancer probably makes me a likely candidate for developing other forms. My body has already failed to deal with rouge cells once adequately, so it makes sense, at least to me, that it might fail in that regard again.

I recently talked with a friend who is only six months younger than me. He had to admit that he hadn’t had a physical. Frankly, I get the reluctance to seek medical advice; I was one of those guys. But since I turned fifty, I have taken my health more seriously, got fit, and still don’t eat enough vegetables. In truth, it has likely saved my life, or at minimum, saved me from much more aggressive treatments.

So, let me end this post with some simple advice. One in two of you reading this will get cancer; those are the numbers. Those odds are hard to ignore. Do yourself a favour if you haven’t done so already, and get a physical. Take heed of the medical advice presented and act on it. If you aren’t already, add some physical activity into your daily routine as the science is precise: exercise is one of the best ways to prevent and delay the onset of serious illness.

Who are you?

It seems like a strange question to ask someone, to ask of oneself - who are you?

I started reading Viola Davis’ memoir the other day “Finding Me” and in the beginning of her book she recounts a conversation that she has with Wil Smith while on a movie set where he asks her the same probing question. The question was the beginning of a journey of self reflection which led to her book.

The essence of her conclusion and that of Smith as well, harkens back to their childhood. To a younger version of their self which at first blush, is to be despised, chastised, be embarrassed by.

I have not had a lot of therapy, but I am sure that I have not had enough either. In previous sessions of therapy, I have been encouraged to picture my younger self, seated next to me, and to embrace that younger version of myself, love and accept him. To be honest, I have always chided at this notion, found it fanciful, if not borderline ridiculous. That is until recently, thanks to Viola and perhaps Wil Smith.

I am sure that I have recounted elements of my childhood in this blog at times, but at the risk of repeating myself, I will do it one more time. I was born with the unfortunate gift of having red hair, at a time when being a “ginger” was not cool at all. My hair to be honest, wasn’t red, but flaming orange - Howdy Doody orange - and it was a constant reminder for most of my adolescence of how uncool I was. Added to the ensemble of uncoolness was the need to wear glasses from an early age. I can still remember the taunting of “goggles pizonos” hurled my way. To top of the list, I had ears that were a bit too large for my head (at the time) which gave those inclined to bully me one more flaw to point to. The combination of these physical attributes were enough on their own, but then you had to add to the mix my serious personality and my intelligence which I wasn’t shy about sharing, and you can easily see how I was a target for many within my small rural community.

I can’t actually remember a time, even in my final year of high school when I wasn’t teased and mocked for looking the way I did. I remember one teacher at Kathryn School (I was in grade three) who actually picked me up by both of my ears in frustration and anger. I remember being thrown down a flight of stairs, pushed and punched, having things thrown at me. But probably more damaging than the physical bullying was the assault on my psyche that seemed at times constant. It drove me to have a constant longing for acceptance, to be part of the group, that I was on one hand part of, and on the other hand, excluded from. I was never in the “in crowd” even when our crowd was only thirty people deep. Growing up in a rural school, it was impossible to be anonymous. Attending a K-12 school afforded a full range of kids to have at me, not just those who were my immediate peers.

Recently reflecting on this time in my life, with my new therapist, she noted that I must have been lonely, and isolated, to which I responded “I guess I was?”

What does all of this have to do with the question Who Are You? And as previously stated, until recently, I would have answered that question with a resounding answer of “NOTHING!”. But now I am not so sure. For most of my life, if not all of it, I have looked upon that younger version of me as weak, a coward, and an embarrassment. I was not, still am not, found of that young orange-haired spectacled kid. However, during that past couple of days, I am beginning to see that kid in a slightly different light. Instead of seeing him as weak, and a coward, I am beginning to see him as resilient, strong, defiant, a survivor. After all, he never gave up, and got me through it all, despite the abuse he endured.

I don’t have this all figured out, by any means. I haven’t reconciled with the twelve year-old version of myself yet. I truthfully am not quite sure even how to do that. But for the first time in my life, I am beginning to see that scared little boy less as a coward, and more as a brave young boy, who stood in the midst of it all, and walked through the flames to the other side. The Enneagram is described as a learned personality type that we adopt in childhood, which serves us well then, and then as we age and mature, tends not to serve us well any longer. That young kid, needed to find ways to be strong, to defend himself, and at times others, to be defiant, brash, and unfortunately, he learned to bury the hurt and pain that he experienced on a weekly basis deep down where no one else could see it. I am beginning to understand how the coping strategies of my younger self worked then, but are not great strategies any longer. But I am also beginning to realize that rather than trying to run away from that kid that I have found to be an embarrassment for most of my life, I should embrace instead, and congratulate for his strength and bravery. I haven’t yet figured out how to reach out and put an arm around the shoulder of my virtual younger self, but at least I am now open to the idea of it. More work to do.

The Enneagram

I have known about the Enneagram for some time now. At least tangentially, almost more of a party-game trick, or perhaps like the placemats at so many Chinese food joints, where my birth year, 1969, indicates that I am a rooster.

In the more recent past many have labelled me as an 8 on the Enneagram, which is both cheeky and as it turns, correct. Last year I thought I might be a 7, but with further exploration, it does indeed appear that I am a solid 8 on the Enneagram.

You may be asking yourself at this point why any of this matters, and just two months ago, I would have been there right beside you on the sofa, chiding and mocking with the best of them, declaring that this mumbo-jumbo is nothing more than pseudoscience BS. But that was two months ago. Today, I find myself pretty solidly in the camp of those who are Enneagram enthusiasts and while I am still a neophyte in all things Enneagram, I am slowly starting to see the benefits of this supposed ancient system of archetypes.

I began to take the Enneagram more seriously as a tool towards nurturing a more cohesive team at Transcend. This past year has been one of the continued transitions and as I listened to some videos by Ian Cron about the utility of the Enneagram for organizational development, I was intrigued. Moreover, as my team completed their Enneagram assessments and began to review them, they were unified in their acknowledgment of how well the Enneagram described their key personality traits. Truthfully, this somewhat surprised me, and I now find myself leading a small group of individuals down a path of self-discovery and the beginning of a journey where we are collectively focused on becoming better versions of ourselves, which is never a bad thing.

While it is possible that the Enneagram is an elaborate placebo system, whereby the mere process of self-examination is the medicine, it appears to me that the system of describing how we as children adopt a certain way of coping with the struggles we face early in our lives seems to be Universal and alarmingly accurate.

In any event, I have decided, at least for now, that this system of describing personality types is useful in marking a path forward, with the ultimate destination of some better version of myself. During my most recent session with my therapist, where I mentioned the Enneagram, I wasn’t laughed out of the room. Although on second thought, any good therapist would restrain laughter regardless of their perspective on the matter.

What I do know about myself is that I am emotionally challenged. For as long as I can remember, I have had difficulty describing what emotions I feel (with the exception of anger) and the Enneagram at least offers me a pathway towards a more balanced existence.

At the ripe young age of 52, I have determined that it is about time that I acted my age. Being a grown-up, in the physical sense, and hopefully in the cultural and spiritual sense too, it is about time I enter into the role of being an elder, who can share wisdom with those younger than me. Sounds silly I know, but then, what is the alternative?

The goal in all of this? Well hopefully along the way, I discover a way to be more patient, more empathetic, less intimidating, less brash, more attuned to the needs around me, and less binary in my thinking. My family and those friends who have chosen to continue the journey with me, despite my many flaws, will undoubtedly applaud my aspirations.

Along the way, I will record my findings here, a way of documenting the journey, more for myself than anyone else, although hopefully, the byproduct of all of this produces benefits that will extend beyond my personal sphere. The jury is still out it would seem.

Reckless

I forget sometimes, which is mostly a good thing, how most people who know me regard much of my behaviour. As far back as I can remember, I have mostly been on the fringes looking in. These memories resurfaced for me last week as I faced daunting ascents up mountains, that from their base seemed, at first glance, insurmountable. I don’t know if I have told the story on this blog before (I think I have) of how I got into mountain climbing. I really never had any burning desire to do it. My first experience with climbing happened when I was about twenty, and attending the University of Lethbridge. One of my management profs asked me whether I wanted to go climbing with him. I thought it sounded like fun, and we ended up in Waterton Lake National Park, climbing the face of Bears Hump. The Bears Hump is a small formation in the middle of the park and is roughly 200 meters in elevation. Composed of limestone and dolomite, it isn't all that conducive to sport climbing and my prof had traditional gear with which to make the climb. I had never even had a climbing harness on prior to this event (said harness now is hanging on my son’s bedroom wall as the relic that it truly is). As we made our way up that sharp crag we got to what must have been the sixth and final pitch. My professor attempted to climb the last section twice but returned both times declaring that we were going to have to make our way down, as he was having a mental block that day and couldn’t complete leading the final pitch. My immediate response to that was something like “WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT, WE CAN’T GO DOWN, WE ARE ALMOST AT THE TOP”. Somehow I convinced him to let me take the lead. Knowing what I know now about climbing it was a fool’s errand, but I didn’t know what I didn’t know. He knew though and never should have let me lead that final pitch. Regardless, I grabbed the gear, and with some basic instruction, started my way up the pitch navigating the unknown that was hanging above me. I actually don’t remember much about that experience. I remember being focused, and intense about not falling. I don’t remember placing the gear, or whether I was scared or not. I remember the exhilaration of getting to the top and looking at my hands and discovering that they were bleeding. I remember my prof getting to the top and being white as a ghost, and telling me one the way down that I had placed very sketchy gear on the way to the top. What did I know, I had never climbed before!

Perhaps that experience was a bit of a foreshadow for my life to come. I didn’t climb again, not really, until after turning fifty. I did a bit of scrambling with my late cousin Josh, he was very much into climbing. I was probably in my early thirties at the time, but after he died in a climbing accident, I lost interest. It wasn’t until my son and I watched the film Free Solo that we got back into climbing. My son came out of the movie theatre after watching Alex Honnold free solo the face of El Capitan and said “Dad, I want to do that!” and my response was HELL NO! that was batshit crazy. But, I also knew that I wanted to spend time with my kid, and I had also declared at my fiftieth that the next decade of my life was to be the “Decade of Adventure”. So we started to climb, at first indoors, and then slowly we took it outside. Two years later, and I am doing a week-long alpine climbing trip, being flown in by helicopter, sleeping in a tent (yes me in a tent for seven nights), and climbing stuff that mostly scares the shit out of me.

I recently told someone that it isn’t the absence of fear that marks courage and strength but the ability to act and stand in the face of it. Starting a business from nothing, making hard decisions along the way that impact other people’s lives and your own ego, and yes standing at the base of a mountain looking up 800 meters to the summit and taking that first step up, are all examples of moving into fear, and through it.

My good friend Tim who is the principal of Girth Hitch Guiding and an apprentice ACMG Alpine Guide was on my most recent trip to the Monashees. He actually was the reason that I even went. In many ways, over the past two years, our relationship has developed into the place where I consider him my younger brother. As such, we can also get under each other’s skin (as siblings are prone to do) and this was also the case last week. At the end of the week, Tim was to lead me up the ridge of Mount Hugin, and he wanted to take me across the saddle back connecting Mount Munin, and then up to its summit. As we began our day and made our way up to the first pitch, I found time and the courage to let him know what I was experiencing and how the impending climb and lack of agency were making me feel. If you have read this blog at all, you know by now that I am no NINJA when it comes to dealing with my emotions. WIth that said, I had been thinking about my emotional response to climbing that week and was beginning to get some insight. What I was discovering is that the fear associated with the climbs were taking me back to my younger self (maybe twelvish) and the emotions of insecurity and inadequacy were bubbling up. I was reacting to those, and my friend Tim, who wanted to ensure that I had an epic week, and was wanting me to climb as much as I could get my hands on. Our conversation doing that first hour was an important and very meaningful one. It solidified our relationship, and I think fortified its foundation for years to come. We climbed the ridge of Hugin linked together, moving as a team up the mountain and while it was a surprising accomplishment for me, for so many reasons, I think it was for Tim too, as he wasn’t sure (deep down) if I was up for it. The climb last Friday was one of the hardest things I have done, physically and mentally and I am proud of my accomplishment. I am thankful for Tim, who has encouraged me over the past two years to become a better version of myself.

I titled this post “Reckless” because I know many people in my life see me as such. They watch me run headlong into situations, apparently without forethought or considering the consequences. Getting married at twenty-three (just celebrated being married to my amazing warrior wife for twenty-nine years), running for Student’s Union President, quitting my Masters program to move to Edmonton and study law, quitting law, to consult, quitting that to launch Transcend Coffee (and the myriad of decisions and mistakes I have made during the past fifteen years with that venture). These are but the highlights in my life where my willingness to run into risky things has branded me reckless and irresponsible.

My wife and I have been enjoying watching the Apple TV show “Ted Lasso” and the other night as we watched she declared, Poul you are like Roy! And she is right, I am very much like Roy, rough around the edges (and maybe even into the middle) opinionated, brusk, (more recently foul-mouthed like Roy), stubborn, impatient, argumentative, and often intimidating. And, at times I am reckless, yes, but most often I have actually given the situation much thought (although I am a fast thinker) and while I can’t always see the outcome, I typically choose to jump, knowing that the risk is outweighed by the potential reward.

I am not without fear, far from it. That twelve-year-old little boy who wanted desperately to fit in (as all kids want to do) who learned to fake being brave, and pretend at whatever the occasion required still lives within me, buried deep most days, but there nonetheless. As I have aged, I no longer have flaming red “Howdy Doody” hair, or big ears (I still wear glasses) and the teasing has long since stopped, with my need to fit diminishing as well. Although if I am honest, I am not sure how much my imposter syndrome has truly receded into the past. That learned behaviour early on and through my teens and even early twenties, served me well (outward confidence and competence) but also plagued me with self-doubt most of my life. Climbing mountains brings all of those emotions and buried coping mechanisms back to the surface, and I find that I am forced to confront them, tied to the end of a rope, hanging off a cliff, in ways that I wouldn't otherwise do. Perhaps I am saying climbing is a form of therapy for me, I don’t know (I am a verbal processor) but it definitely brings out that scared little boy in me. Thankfully, it also allows me to look that fear in its head on, and rather than be buffeted back, stand in the face of it, and act, deliberately putting one foot and hand above the other until the summit is reached.

I don’t think mountain climbing is reckless, not at all actually. Tied in with a competent guide, climbing is actually very safe. True, the exposure can be real, and the stress definitely is, but the real risk is more imagined than actual. Obviously, the mountains are unpredictable and shit can happen at any time, but that is life in a nutshell. As I said to Tim last week, climbing is not my whole life, but it has given me insight into myself, and granted me opportunities to confront my fears, both real and imagined, both present day and in the past, and enabled me to walk through them, and summit on the other side of it. Climbing for me is very much a metaphor for my life, and for that, I will happily wear the moniker of being RECKLESS.

Where has the year gone?

It is hard to fathom that my last blog post was written 457 days ago! The past fifteen months have both flown and crawled by, which is nonsensical I know, but it is probably how many of us feel about this unprecedented covid epoch.

As I revisited the back end of this website this afternoon, I was surprised to see the amount of time that has elapsed from the last entry. Not to mention my frame of mind with the last entry, as it was anything but hopeful. I can’t really recall the emotions that precipitated that post, but obviously, they were a mix of dread and despair. I do remember thinking for a time that I might need to buy some bullets and drag the trailer out to the David Thompson Corridor, and thankfully that need never presented itself.

With that said, it has been a trying year. Running a hospitality business during covid has been a challenge, to say the least. I am thankful for our staff who through the entire affair demonstrated perseverance and unlike so many other establishments, we were able to remain open throughout it all. I am not going to pretend that these last fifteen months were anything but trying, and yet, through these past months, I personally have regained my footing, my perspective and my enthusiasm for what lies ahead.

My decade of adventure was battered but not defeated and I have continued to find ways to spend time in the mountains. Added to time on the face of those rocky companions, I now spend time in the streams which circulate around their feet. While I am a poor example of what some call anglers, I have caught and released my share of fish these past months. Assuming that my upcoming trip isn’t thwarted by smoke and fire, I am heading to the Gold Range of the Monashees in a week for seven days of off-the-grid climbing where summits will be on the docket every day. Supposedly there is cell service at the top of one of the mountains, and if I get there, I will send out some photos, so stay tuned to Instagram during the week of the 8th.

Transcend has survived this past year, and more than that has been refined into something that it wasn’t prior to the pandemic. A number of folks have departed and with that, there has been room for new growth, perspective, and new energy. I am looking forward to the Fall and hopefully to a time and place where people feel comfortable gathering with one another once again. The loss of community as a result of the need to isolate has been difficult at best, and I fear that the repercussions of that isolation will have long-lasting implications. With that said, I also see in so many around me an eagerness to return to a more social way of being, as we all yearn to be known, and share time with those who know us.

I apologize for the Christmas Letter’ness of this post, my wife says that I only write when I am in turmoil, which may be true? When I saw the gap that has persisted between posts, I thought it important to write something, if only to move the unread margins of this electronic journal away from the angst of the last entry. Not that I feel the need to apologize for that post, it was real at the time, but rather acknowledge the distance I feel today from that place I was at 457 days ago.

I am grateful for many things despite the trials of these past fifteen months. Grateful for those brave individuals who have journeyed with me listened (or perhaps more accurately) endured my rants, walked the river valley with me, climbed mountains, waded streams, and shared a seat in my little boat. I am grateful for those who continue to believe in me, despite my idiosyncrasies, and rough edges. I am grateful for a wife and son who patiently endured my time in the maze of my emotions and can now bask in a more tempered and joyful companion. And while I don’t view this past epoch of covid as anything but tragic and frustrating, I am grateful for the trials and hardships faced during it. I have had to look into the dark mirror and wrestle with the man that was starring back at me. And while I have not emerged from the dark cave unscathed, nor fully whole, I have discovered that I have had the courage to act when necessary. I have discovered that the opposite is also true, that the lack of courage to act when required ultimately results in the forfeiture of the privilege to lead.

You would think that after fifty-two years, one would acquire more wisdom along the way. I guess I have a small satchel that I carry with me, and thankfully there is room therein for plenty more. Perhaps this leg of the journey will serve up more than those I have travelled previously. What I do know is that life is not a popularity contest. Not everyone I encounter will fancy me, just as I do not like everyone I meet along the way. But to those who do find time and energy to journey along as a companion, if only for brief stints, know that I am grateful for you, as I am a better man for your company.

Dream Killer

What makes a man? Or a woman for that matter. Is it the struggles they endure, his failures, or her victories? Is it success in the face of certain failure, courage in the midst of fear? Does resiliance make the man, or is it discipline? I am not sure that they are as popular today as they once were, dreamcatchers, you know the colourful rings originally made by Native Americans which were supposed to catch bad dreams. What I do know is that these past six weeks, for me at least, have been pretty much the opposite of good dreams, and have been dream killers.

At the best of times I struggle to understand myself, to clearly articulate the emotions and inner workings of my mind and heart. Some have said that these past weeks have been a gift in disguise, that they have forced us to slow down, pause, reflect, and reassess what is important in life. To be sure, I have spent a lot of time reading and thinking these past weeks, perhaps more than I am used to, I am not certain about that? What I do know is that I haven’t had the typical dreams with which to focus on, to apply my reflections and reading towards. I have never been good at maintenance, that much I know. Since as far back as I can remember, I have been an intense dreamer. Some would say that I am too optimistic, always expecting the best possible outcome. To be honest, I am not sure that I am an optimist, at least not anymore. Others would say that I am a realist, focused on what I can see and measure, and I am not sure that fits the bill either. I think I am becoming more of a cynic in my lingering years, and I know that I am not Okay with that, despite the overwhelming evidence all around me, I want to believe in something more than just actions for personal gain.

I have never been a goal guy either, the five year plan kinda guy. I tried writing a five year plan once, and it was laughable, I can’t stay on the same path for three months, let alone five years! But I am a dreamer. I draw energy from the process of envisioning something and then striving to make that dream a reality. Eight months ago, I committed to spending three nights in the Bugaboos, trying to ascend mountains that I would have never thought possible in my lifetime. That dream, that vision of me walking a knife’s edge of a granite summit thousands of feet above flat earth, inspired me, pushed me to hike and prepare. COVID has killed that dream, at least for this year, and as a result, the motivation to prepare for it has died too. Despite the fact that I know how beneficial my daily training was and remains to my physical and mental health, the motivation is now gone. I hate that about myself. I don’t understand how I can’t simply be more disciplined and hike and train just for the sake of health, but I seemingly can’t.

Fifteen years ago I started Transcend Coffee as a dream to establish community. That journey has been a very twisty voyage full of disappointment and failure, small and large victories, confusion and clarity. At times over the past years I have wanted to quit, to walk away from it all. I have isolated myself, condemned myself as a colossal failure, been certain of everything but the truth. But through all of those years, Transcend has always been a place of gathering, a reason to get together, to converse, banter, commiserate. And while we have remained open, to serve coffee, sell beans, and have focused on ultimately surviving this pandemic, Transcend has not been a place of gathering for six weeks and it is starting to wear on me. Don’t misunderstand me, I am very thankful for the ongoing support of the Edmonton market, and the online sales across this country.

Truth be told, I am a bit of a COVID rebel, and for most, that probably doesn’t come as a surprise at all. But despite my personal tendencies towards rule breaking, I find myself in a place where I have never been before. I am part of a world where getting together, where building community is no longer allowed. Sure we can Zoom and gather virtually, but for me, it is not the same, and never will be. I hate what these past six weeks have done to the world that I am now part of, where fear and suspicion simmer just beneath the surface, where hugs and handshakes are not even a consideration, even between close friends.

Personally, I am not fearful of this virus, at least not in what it can do to me in the physical sense. But what I wasn’t prepared for was how this virus was going to start to chip away, slowly begin to kill something far more precious to me than health, and what I am discovering is that it is the right and freedom to live in a physical interactive community. What I am discovering is that this microscopic invisible invader is slowly starting to kill my dreams. And unfortunately, I don’t think anyone has come up with a dreamcatcher for this nightmare.

Fairy Tales

I started to work on a fairy tale of sorts last week, it isn’t yet ready for publication, but hopefully soon, or perhaps never. I am not sure why I started writing it exactly, maybe because my head is full of The Tales of Beedle the Bard which recently made it into my Audible library. Fairy tales are stories we tell ourselves, tell our children to inspire them, to shock them, to motivate them, and yes at times, even to scare them. I can only speculate, but I am guessing that J.K. Rowling found inspiration for her book of tales in the Children’s and Household Tales by the Brothers Grimm? We often associate fairy tales with happy endings, but the Grimm brothers were not convinced.

While I have thoroughly enjoyed the Tales of Beedle the Bard, I must admit that I was never really into fairy tales as a child. I never found much use for those stories or the morals that they were espousing. Now that I think of it, growing up in a Danish home, I was far more familiar with the fables written by Hans Christen Anderson, than the Brothers Grimm (the Little Mermaid, the Ugly Duckling). Despite my exposure to fairy tales, perhaps my lack of enthusiasm with them stemmed from knowing that the truth is always stranger than fiction. And that has never been more true than at this juncture we collectively find ourselves today.

What is jaw-dropping to me is the collective consent the world has exercised in relation to the threat posed by a virus. Albeit, I am hesitant to describe this consent as informed consent as I don’t think people actually knew what they were signing up for in all of this. I am not just talking about the next four to six weeks of continued isolation and public shaming that we are all in for either (New York City has just released an app to rat out one another to the authorities for not social distancing). We have consented to be led en masse towards a massive knife-edge and while the time to pull back is quickly shrinking, we if act sooner rather than later, we may yet selvidge our children’s future. I am with Rex Murphy on this one, who frankly has been one of the lone voices of reason within the media in all of this…

I do not know if it is possible, in the middle of a genuine national crisis, to gather the intellectual and financial resources to deal with a future, but imminent, one. The scale of the economic crisis we will be facing must somehow find the serious attention and planning and urgency we are bringing to COVID-19. Even as, in the darkest of ironies, we are still attempting to combat the coronavirus.

It is an inescapable fact, an axiom of implacable logic, that we must deal with the first crisis first. But the economic crisis to come is already boiling beneath us. Lives are already being upended. The stability of normal times is in disruption. And millions go through their days disturbed in spirit and likely their mental health as well.

It must somehow be prepared for, to whatever degree it can be, now.

While we have a responsibility as citizens to care for one another in civil society, this care surely is not only to be confined to one’s immediate physical health needs. As I pen this post a total of forty-eight people (all loved and cherished) have died in Alberta from the virus. While this is not a trivial number, I can’t help contrast that to the fact that over 20,000 people die each and every day to communicable diseases; over 3,000 people die every day in traffic accidents, and this doesn’t account for all the deaths that occur daily due to starvation, war and heart disease, just to name a few. Each and every day, for the last number of years, those deaths have racked up annually into the millions, without significant intervention.

Yet mysteriously, we collectively have decided en masse to choose COVID 19 as “the” great threat to humanity to respond to, and by the response, I mean literally shut down the entire global economy, Sweden excluded. What led to that decision, fear? As I mentioned above, the collective consent to lock ourselves away in our homes, was not informed, as we have not been given the full picture of what that decision will likely result in. What I do know is that the economic tsunami that is coming is unlike anything the world has experienced since 1929. While we collectively hold our breath and long for days of social interaction in the sunshine, which will come (sooner rather than later I hope), we haven’t imagined or prepared for the economic strife which is steamrolling towards us as we lie helpless tied to the tracks.

From the tone of this post, you may have deduced that I am not sold on the global response towards this virus. If you picked that up, you would be correct. Frankly, I am fully with the Swedish epidemiologist Anders Tegnell who is directing his country towards a more measured approach to all of this mayhem and is not willing to sacrifice the Swedish economic livelihood to beat the virus. I am with Tegnell and others who recognize that humanity is dependent on more than our physical health. We are social creatures, dependent on gathering and sharing experiences and resources. Some would argue that it is only this which makes us “human”, the essential element which separates us from the rest of the mammals on this planet.

Alberta did not choose to go the way of Sweden in all of this, but we did seemingly come prepared. We have tested more aggressively than almost anywhere else per capita and our social distancing has limited the spread of the virus. Unlike Sweden, our approach apparently is not geared to developing herd immunity, and so many experts speculate that we will encounter waves of an outbreak again in the fall and next spring. As troubling as that sounds for some in terms of health outcomes, it would be devastating for our economy which funds our daily lives, not to mention our healthcare system. Let us hope for the speedy delivery of a vaccine.

Not all fairy tales are happily ever after. The cliche posits that there are only two certainties in life, death and taxes, and yet, we collectively seem to have deluded ourselves into a place where death is no longer one of those certainties. Don’t get me wrong, I wish death on no one, but I am not naive enough to pretend that it doesn’t come for us all at some point, a cloak of invisibility or not!

As in most fairy tales, the characters of the story find themselves in dangerous times, strange times, ridiculous times. The end of the story ultimately depends on the author’s imagination, and yet, it is not hard within this story to surmise that the story will not end happily ever after. While there is still time to reign in the herd and bend their trajectory, the cliff is not that far off in the distance.

Shitty Week, Part Deux

I wasn’t ready to write about V Day quite yet.

With each passing day, the previous one seems more like the end of a bad dream. Lewis Carroll put pen to paper one hundred and fifty-five years ago and penned the timeless classic Alice in Wonderland. I think many of the sentiments found in his work are strangely appropriate in this chaotic time.

It takes all the running you can do, to keep in the same place. If you want to get somewhere else, you must run at least twice as fast as that!

and

Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.

Just a couple of quotes that struck me as relevant. In the midst of all of this, I remain thankful. A small band remains hard at work to keep Transcend open (to go and beans) and the roastery team keeps roasting and filling bags that have been flying out the door at a record pace via online sales - thankful. While so many other small businesses not just in Edmonton, but across Alberta and beyond, have made agonizing decisions to shut their doors, we are grateful for your ongoing support.

I know that I am a strange man; not just because I so often find myself at my keyboard typing at 1:15 am. I am a paradox even unto myself, conflicted with opposing thoughts and views, challenged by the world I am living in, knowing that I am as much a part of the problem as those I find it so easy to judge. These times of uncertainty, foreboding and suffering produce at the same time a sense of dread and odd hope. You see the madness of the world all around, and yet, also the kindness and grace. Extreme selfishness and generosity. The Cheshire cat told Alice that “we are all mad here” and it doesn’t take a much to find oneself nodding in agreement with that. Along with Alice, I find myself responding as she did with the statement “curiouser and curiouser”!

I am a news junky, I have been all of my life. But recently I have quit watching the news. Responsible journalism, it seems to me, has devolved into fear-mongering and a morbid fascination with the celebration of all that is bad in the world. Oh, they throw in a little good news in the last thirty seconds of the broadcast, but the rest is filled with shock and awe (and I am not just talking about Fox either). So with no sports to watch, and no news my cooking is filled these days with a strange unusual silence, although this evening we watched the old movie Field of Dreams which wasn’t in any way bad for the soul. Alas, I am rambling.

We have collectively descended down the rabbit hole. The world is topsy turvy and strange and new, and not in a good way. I am not optimistic about how this turns out, and yet, I am also not prepared to fold just yet. I still have some chips on the table, and as long as there are some in front of me, despite a dwindling stack, I will bid and play with the hope that I can win a hand or two along the way. OK, enough with the analogies, it is time for bed.

It's no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then.

Already, but not Yet

I have been watching the new Amazon series Hunters which is a fictional portrayal of a group of American Jewish Nazi hunters in the 70’s. This then led me to think about the Second World War and the distinction between D Day (June 6, 1944) and V-E Day (May 8, 1945). The first of those dates marked the beginning of the end of the war for the German forces, as 156,115 Allied troops (Canadian, British and American) stormed the beaches of France in Operation Overlord. They say that the Allied command planned the D Day invasion for over two years. The Canadians were charged with taking Juno Beach, and despite heavy losses did what Canadians do best and fought and pushed hard, driving German forces back. By June 11, 1944, the Allied forces had captured five beaches on the Normandy coastline and the war turned in favour of the Allied forces. With that said, the fighting during the next eleven months were some of the worst including the Battle of the Bulge in December 1945 where Hitler ordered 250,000 troops to push back the Allied forces, only to lose that onslaught of soldiers on both sides, and in defeat committed suicide at the end of April. V-E Day happened when Germany finally surrendered Europe and the war was partly over, Japan didn’t surrender until the following August.

So why go on about the history of World War II?

It is actually the period of time between D Day and V-E Day that got me thinking. While the war was essentially won on D Day, as thousands stormed the beaches of Normandy, the actual surrender came months later, and in the interim period, chaos and destruction reigned.

As our province, country and world wage war on an invisible enemy, a one-micron wide virus, D Day is perhaps in view. The modern-day allied forces are planning and while it isn’t exactly clear yet, a D Day of sorts is on the horizon when it comes to stopping the spread of the coronavirus. That day is in sight, perhaps two to three months away in Canada, but in sight nonetheless. What is less in focus it seems to me is our new V Day.

While all of our efforts are being directed towards the containment of the virus, little thought (it seems to me) is being directed towards the upcoming battle of the bulge in 2020 where the global economy will face the oncoming economic pushback of this pandemic. The costs of fighting this battle have been extreme thus far. More than 2 Trillion Dollars will likely be spent worldwide in the efforts to contain and counter this virus. Frankly, that number is so large that it doesn’t even register in my brain. But despite that, what I know to be true is that number (as insane as it is) is just the tip of the iceberg.

We are inching towards “already”. The end is in sight, despite all the critical hard work that is still needed, health experts assure us that we can stop the spread of this tiny enemy given vigilance and time. The real challenge for us all (I believe) will come in the upcoming “not yet” economic battle of the bulge. It took eleven months for the Allied forces to move from D Day to V-E Day seventy-five years ago. I think that a similar timeline in our current scenario is hugely optimistic in this modern-day battle. More of my thoughts on that to come.

It's Been a Shitty Week

Not gonna lie, it’s been a shitty week so far. How things can change in a matter of a few days.

Despite my own views on this pandemic, it has bared its fangs in regards to small business in Alberta. Today Transcend made the agonizing decision to lay off everyone apart from the management team, in order to reduce costs in an attempt to keep the business afloat. With declining revenues and mounting pressures to reduce personal contact, we are operating the cafes as to-go only for as long as that option remains viable. Our hope is to maintain our roasting facility so that we can meet our obligations in terms of coffee subscriptions and bean sales.

I couldn’t have imagined the world we find ourselves a part of in my wildest dreams. It’s hard to conceive how fifteen years of building something can be jeopardized by something you can’t even see. I know so many businesses across this province that are similarly reeling from the cascading impact that COVID is having, and it is tragic at every level.

I am not sure how to navigate this for the next three to six months, but I guess this becomes the next big problem to solve for the business community. I am very thankful for the committed and passionate team of people I have to work with through this. I have no doubt whatsoever that we will make it through the health aspects of this pandemic, but I am far less optimistic about the economic future facing us. I have never been the “raw-raw” guy, as most of you know all too well. My perspective always slides to the more realistic side of things, not un-optimistic, but I threw away the rose coloured glasses years ago. Owning a business requires a healthy risk-tolerance, but there is no schooling for this one. I know we are all encouraged to reduce contact, stay at home, and I am not suggesting otherwise. But that said, if you are out and about, or are going to order online, think of your local small business as they madly scramble to stay afloat.

Everyone take a moment, grab a chair, and a beer.

So this post is intended to be an interactive experience. Go to the fridge, grab a beer, grab a chair and push play so my personal theme song can echo in the background, while you read my rant.

Let me first say that I get that Covid-19 is a serious virus, and that we are in the midst of a pandemic and that smarter people than I are calling for the “flattening of the curve” in Alberta and Canada. But I also know that the world is blowing this entire thing out of control. Our media is to be held to a large account for this, fostering fear and panic over the past six weeks, putting the Corona Virus as the lead story every night, because they live and feed off of mayhem and fear.

I have questions as to why the news doesn’t draw our attention to the fact that 3,000 people die every day in the United States in car accidents? Why doesn’t the media make the first story in their line-up that 2,200 people die every day globally from pneumonia? Why isn’t the news covering the fact that 440 people die every day around the world from Whooping Cough, a disease which should have been eradicated through existing vaccines decades ago. Even the measles claim 247 deaths daily around the globe. I get that Covid-19 is serious and that it is spreading, and yet it ranks far lower on the list of diseases that adds to global mortality (56 per day) than so many others. And we haven’t even brought into the equation war, poverty and hunger. Is it because those things don’t affect us personally, don’t cause people to lose their minds and rush out and strip shelves of toilet paper in the cities we live in. Is it because there aren’t fancy arenas and stadiums full of overpaid athletes and their corresponding entertainment value being affected in those parts of the globe? Is it because so much of the suffering that occurs daily on our planet happens in Africa, or India, or some other less developed, less fortunate part of the world?

What I know is that our propensity as a society to react in irrational fear and panic has initiated an unnecessary global recession, which will take untold months to recover from. Before the craziness is over, it will likely severely affect many businesses in Edmonton and across Canada and beyond, affect jobs, and will probably result in business bankruptcy. This craziness has already stripped years of value off of most people’s personal wealth, their pensions, and their future. We are shutting down schools when our youth are the least likely to be impacted by this virus.

I simply don’t understand how we got to this place? I don’t understand how we collectively have chosen to believe lies and misinformation in the face of truth and reason. Most days I can dial up Billy Currington and beer in hand, shake my head and chuckle, but with this one, that just doesn’t seem to be enough.

Yes of course, wash your hands, do the elbow bump, and, take a breath. By all means, be a responsible citizen if you find yourself feeling unwell, and avoid spreading it around, but until then, quit buying toilet paper and get outside and go for a walk.

The Top 1%

My friend Chris recently shared some information produced by ATB which documents the growth trajectory of Canadian businesses. In short, the data shows that 95% of businesses in Canada fail to grow beyond the threshold of 1-3 employees and gross revenue of $250k. Another 4% of Canadian businesses rise to the level of $1M in revenue with 10-12 employees.

I was shocked to discover these facts about the Canadian economy and amazed at how much small business truly sustains the wealth creation in this country. I was also dumbfounded to find that Transcend Coffee falls into the 1% of Canadian businesses! While a part of me was proud to know that over the past fourteen years Transcend has survived and evolved to find itself in that rarefied company, another perhaps bigger part was reminded of how getting to this place was built on luck and groping in the dark.

Building a business is damn hard. Just ask anyone who has done it. I recently read that being an entrepreneur reduces one’s emotions to two; either the feeling of euphoria or terror, both of which are enhanced by the lack of sleep which accompanies them. Frankly, I have experienced a good deal more terror than euphoria during the past decade, and it is startling to live in that place of tenuous stress - still - after so many years. The cliches abound when it comes to business. “Cash is King”, “It’s a win-win situation”, “Grab the low hanging fruit”, “We need to think outside of the box”. The list goes on and on. And frankly, all of it is mostly true and almost all of it is bullshit.

Building a business is a roller coaster ride, where most of the ride is done in the dark, not knowing where the tracks are going, and not knowing how the ride will ultimately end. Despite all of the business advice out there, I don’t think there is any recipe for success. The problem with business is that you don’t know what you don’t know, and no matter how much data you have, or planning you do, external circumstances hit you blindside and create chaos. They can be small bumps (the loss of a significant customer) or large bumps (the frenzied fear surrounding COVID19) but regardless, preparation for either is nearly impossible. And so the life of the entrepreneur is comprised of learning to react, and hoping that your reactions and corresponding adjustments along the way don’t sink the business you are trying to build.

I think it is true that those of us who venture down the path of business building have higher tolerances for risk. Or perhaps that is just a nice way of saying that we are thick. No matter how successful or lucky you are, failure is always lurking around the corner, ready to pounce. So the question hanging awkwardly in the room is why do we do it?

Take Richard Branson for example. What drives a man who is rich beyond measure to start over 200 businesses? Hint - it’s not the money. I don’t think it is the thrill either. In truth, I can’t speak on his behalf in regards to what motivates him, but I can speculate, and I know what motivates me. It is an insatiable need to create, to be creative, to build something; and not possessing the skills of a painter or a sculptor, I find that business is my medium of choice.

Frankly, I am not sure why I felt the need to write on this subject. I commend you if you have hung with me this far! But in conclusion, I do want to encourage you to support the small business where you can. I am not dogmatic about this, because in our economy it isn’t always easy to do, even if we are only talking about less than 1% of the big companies out there - they tend to demand our attention. You are, after all, looking at an Apple devotee and junkie. Maybe my goal with this piece is also to give credit where it is due. Our nation’s economic engine is built upon the staggering efforts of enterprising individuals who slog it out every day hoping beyond hope that their efforts will feed their families, and maybe even yield just a tiny bit of profit. The reality is that their efforts sustain our economy and enable the services which we have all grown to rely upon.

The one thing I know, having survived the past fourteen years, is that from the outside, business building can look sexy and appealing, but just like the seemingly effortless sailing of a duck on a lake, there remain two frantically paddling feet underneath the surface, which no one ever sees. A life composed of only terror and euphoria is not really a choice, but almost always a compulsion to be bridled.

Dumbledore's Pensive

Imagination is a curious thing. We tolerate it amongst our young, even celebrate it at times - as long as the invisible friends don’t hang around too long. It is true that we all crave the product of the imaginative; forty years of Star Wars confirms this craving. And yet, apart from the theatre, the studio, or a good novel, I think imagination is largely dismissed as childhood frivolity.

Our corporate culture demands efficiency and productivity. On the whole, creative imagination is relegated to the arts, seen as soft, and dismissed as unreliable intuition at best. The real money, the results are found in facts, truth, objective reality, research, science and when we are vulnerable, luck. 

I have been listening to Harry Potter for the last couple of months. I watched all the movies, more times than I wanted as my son grew up, fascinated with the series, but I never read the books until now. I must say that I have thoroughly enjoyed them, and grown to appreciate the acting of Jim Dale, who does a masterful job bringing life to the many characters within Rowling’s tales.

I haven’t read the books in order, and have just wrapped up The Deathly Hallows. One of the things in that book, along with preceeding volumes, that has captured my imagination is the pensive. That stone bowl stored in Dumbledore's office cabinet which allows he and Harry to relive the memories of others as if they had experienced them first hand. I would love to have a pensive. I would love to be able to take the memories of others and dump them into a bowl, swirl them around, plunge my head into the silvery mist and take a look around.

In fact, there are so many things that happen in the Harry Potter stories that I would love to experience. I am enthralled by the imagination of J.K. Rowlings as she spins her yarn of a magical world which beckons me into it.

But that pensive may offer us a glimpse into our own creative imagination.

Finding time to reflect in our busy, crowded, and noisy world is difficult at best. Our society is beset with distractions, our devices are glued to our hands, and it is a rarity that our eyeballs are ever free from some sort of screen. Meditation Apps like Calm and Headspace are now Billion dollar companies as people scramble desperately to find some way of shutting out the constant barrage of noise.

One of the things that I have valued the most about our new neighbourhood is its proximity to the river valley. And while my physical self has greatly benefited from my time hiking single track trails, I think my mind has benefited equally. I rarely walk in silence. Usually I am listening to a book on Audible either being entertained or instructed. The habit of walking and listening has been one of my great joys over the past eighteen months. What I have also discovered as I walk is that I don’t simply listen; I also process, and ponder, and dream, and remember and reflect. What I have discovered is that my time in the river valley has become my own personal form of a pensive where I have the opportunity to plunge into the imaginative and creative elements of my inner world, and dare I say even my subconsciousness. As I walk and listen, I have written poems, dreamt new beginnings, new ventures, worked out relationships, discovered new things about myself and others; the list could go on. 

As I wander on the banks of the Edmonton river system, I have inadvertently discovered the key to enabling my mind to wander, and as it meanders the byproduct of that activity is the unleashing of a creative and imaginative energy. Some would label this process meditation, or prayer, perhaps communing with the universe? I am not sure that I even know how to label it, or if I even care. What I do know is that my life is more full, more complete, more integrated than it used to be. 

Would it be amazing to live in the world of Harry Potter, of course it would. The thought of snapping your fingers and having the physical world do your bidding is an intoxicating prospect. But what we should also recognize woven into the stories of Rowling is the angst and many underlying problems rife in that world which mirrors our own. Having magic didn’t solve Harry’s problems, and wouldn’t solve all of our problems, but rather, replace them with new ones. The desire to escape haunts us all, and requires effort to rebuff. Escape is never the answer, at least that is what Brené Brown tells us! Where I think the answer lies is in unleashing our imagination, in finding a way to tap into our creative self and spending time alone there. The answer - at least in part - is in discovering your personal pensive and allowing yourself the time and space to wander and look around, once you have taken the plunge through the swirling mists of your own mind.

Why Bother?

I have been thinking a lot lately about the value of writing. Why should I bother to write, as I have always sucked at keeping a journal. Don’t get me wrong, I have started many journals in my life, but all too quickly they become paper weights on a shelf, covered in dust. Even my electronic journals, of which this blog is one, are sporadic at best. I write in spurts, fits and starts, and then go months, even years with nothing but a quiet keyboard.

So why bother writing at all?

I have had a few encounters this week, running into people that I rarely see, who have commented that they read my blog. Moreover, they not only read it, but enjoy it, and value the vulnerability expressed within what I write. And while I appreciate the encouragement, and am earnestly grateful that some people find value in the words that emanate from my finger tips, I am still left with the question of why I bother to write at all?

I am not writing with the hopes of being the next self-help guru. I am not writing with the intent to get rich or famous, hell if I wanted that, I would at least be publishing these posts on a platform like Medium where there would be a sliver of a chance that someone might “like” my faltering prose.

Truthfully, I don’t know why I write at all. At times, my writing has been an outlet, a compunction to process jumbled thoughts and ideas rumbling in my head. At times, I think my writing has been a backhanded method of calling out things that piss me off - this is especially true with my poetry. Most of the time I think that my writing has to do with me getting to know myself better, and even as I type these words, that sounds pathetic.

People have told me that they value my vulnerability, my willingness to bare my soul - so to speak. On this front, I feel inadequate too. I don’t feel like I am very honest most days as I write on this blog. There are still so many jumbled thoughts and conflicting ideas banging around in my head, and I constantly struggle with the fear of exposure, and whether to commit my thoughts to the screen, making them permanent.

Maybe that is partly why I write? When I put things on the internet, I know that they are there forever. Sure I could delete this blog, but the record would always be there (a lesson so many politicians learn the hard way). So is it about legacy, permanence, fighting my own mortality? At times the process of writing is definitely therapeutic - forcing Jekyll and Hyde out into the light, both at the same time.

As I make my way along the path towards twilight, what I am more certain of now than ever, is that I am less certain about everything. Gone are the days where I “know” the truth. Gone are the days where I even desire to make sense of it all. The world around me is on fire. Global economics, climate, politics, religions are all at war, polarization is now the norm. And yet, what I long for is more time in the mountains, more time amongst trees, and meadows and alongside rivers. Communing with natural world, reminds me of my insignificance in this vast cosmos. Dust on a tiny planet, amongst billions of stars, so vast that it is impossible to even shape my imagination around the notion.

And with all of these words having spilled out onto the screen, I have failed to answer my question. I don’t have a damn clue as to why I feel compelled to write, and then to publish my mediocre composition for all (well at least twenty of you) to see. And maybe that is part of it. Wrestling with my own identity, my existence; is there meaning, is there a greater plan, are we alone in the universe? Without clear answers, it is likely that I will continue to flail on the keyboard, and subject the inter-webs to my haphazard intrusions.

Boredom in the New Year

What did Her Royal Majesty call it, “a bumpy year”?

I can empathize with that characterization in many ways, and yet, despite the bumps, it has also been an almost epic year of personal transformation. Last April as I crested the fifty mark in my life, I publically declared the next ten years of my life to be my “Decade of Adventure”. Little did I know how much that would come to pass.

Since June of last year, my son and I have completed twenty-eight outdoor climbs together, many of them with our now dear friend Tim Taylor. The year culminated with our first ice climb on Crescent Falls a week ago. The last six months have provided the foundation for the evolution of my own identity, which now includes that of a mountain climber. Who would have thunk it?

Having embraced this aspect of my evolved identity, I have found it necessary to alter my behaviour to align with this new facet. In short, I needed to get in shape, because climbing mountains, even hiking to the base of the mountain you want to climb is damn hard. To that end, in August of last year, I began a new training regiment based on the philosophy outlined in the book Training for a New Alpinism. Without getting into the details, I essentially spend a fair amount of time each week hiking the river banks of Edmonton, just east of where we live. While I am out there hiking the single track trails, I take the opportunity to listen to audiobooks - killing two birds with one stone. Most recently I have been listening to Atomic Habits by James Clear.

Near the end of his book, James outlines the need to endure boredom as an element common to those individuals who eventually come to master a skill. This notion struck me, as I am not naturally predisposed towards suffering boredom (I have passed those genes onto my kid too). I bore easily, and when I get bored, I typically disengage. Surprisingly, I have managed to stick with my training program for five months now (more or less) as the long-term goal of being fit enough to climb in the Bugaboos in July has been a powerful motivator. Our culture has largely served up a lie via social media that those individuals whom we admire and follow have simply gotten to where they are by natural abilities and good luck. If we pause for a moment and think about it (exercise some common sense) we quickly can surmise that this just isn’t possible. Anyone who becomes a master has put in countless hours of training and suffered boredom for hundreds if not thousands of hours. There simply isn’t a substitute for putting in the time (at least outside of the Matrix).

Having hiked the trails behind my house now for five months, I must admit that they are becoming a bit too familiar. The bends and rises are starting to lull me into complacency. I am at the point, perhaps even beyond the point where I normally check out in boredom. And yet, my newly adopted identity of mountain climber requires me to align my behaviour, despite my boredom, to that of an active individual who spends time trudging up and down hills. I know that I will never become an amazing mountain climber, nor do I even have the ambition to become one. But I do want to be competent, and I want to develop into someone who can pursue this life of adventure well into my 70’s, hell, why not my 80’s? I have experienced the powerful force of transformation that spending time on the mountain facilitates. I know there is much more to experience in that regard, and I know that I want to share it with as many others as are willing to give it a go. 

And so I am learning that part of my decade of adventure will also require me to embrace a decade of boredom, where I put in the time, fighting through the drudgery so that my body and mind can measure up to the tasks looming ahead on this journey into adventure.

Too Busy to Write?

Forgive me father for I have sinned, it’s been three months since I last wrote on my blog. I know, a dumb analogy, and probably unwarranted at that. But it does feel like I have abandoned this outlet of my existence for the last quarter of 2019. To be honest, I am not exactly sure what has changed?

I dubbed this coming decade in April to be the decade of adventure. Perhaps this is in part what has happened to my writing, but I don’t actually think that I can blame it all on the mountains. It is true that I have spent a fair amount of time in Nordegg and Banff this summer, along with Vancouver Island and even Arizona. It is true that the Boy and I have earnestly embraced the whole mountain climbing thing, and have logged over thirty climbs in this summer, including three multi-pitch climbs. It is true that I actually bought a used tent trailer and have slept in it more than twice this past summer! It is true that my family have become very acquainted with the delightful Taylor family who have joyfully occupied many a weekend. But is all of this the reason why I have neglected this creative outlet for the past three months?

Pigeon Spire also in the Bugaboos

I have often struggled with a sense of inadequacy. I have, at times, overcompensated for this with bluster, brashness, sometimes rudeness, impertinence, bravado and false humility. I often try too hard. I run to fast. I jump too fast. I expose myself and those around me to unnecessary risk. Despite all of this, I very often find myself struggling with what to write. and I think writing for me is not just a creative outlet, but also a way of processing, of working through angst and disappointment.

I am speculating now, but I am wondering out-loud, or at least on the screen (I am a verbal processor and since you are not here you are left reading my thoughts) whether this newly acquired physical outlet is not just improving my fitness level, but also my mental state. I have been training now, for over eight weeks for a trip that is planned to climb in the Bugaboos next July. I have only skipped two days of training in over eight weeks; which is so not like me! Is my new found focus and goal of preparing for this endeavour providing me a mental outlet wherein I am subconsciously processing things that I previously felt a need to work through on this channel?

I told Tim (www.girthhitchguiding.ca shameless plug) recently that I find climbing much like riding a bike up a steep hill, with one big difference; it is a bike I can’t get off of. I have never been very mentally tough. I am easily dissuaded from doing things I don’t want to do. Guilt is very rarely a motivator for my actions. In the past, when I have been riding up a hill I don’t want to ride up, I typically quit, and turn the bike around and ride back down - there is always another way around. The difference with climbing, especially multi-pitch climbing is that you can’t actually quit 600 feet off the ground. So whether I want to continue the climb, whether or not I want to push myself beyond what I think I can accomplish on the rock, I find myself without much choice in the matter. Often on the rock, I find myself angry in the middle of a pitch. Angry at my inadequacy, angry at my fear, angry at my hesitancy. And yet, when the pitch is completed, I can look back with a sense of accomplishment for what I just finished, despite myself.

So perhaps rock climbing is my new therapy? I am not sure. I know that I am a healthier human being today, than I was three months ago. I know that I have done things in these past three months that I never thought I would do before. I know that I am dreaming about things today, that I wasn’t dreaming about three months ago. What started off as a project for me to stay connected to my kid has morphed into something more. Don’t get me wrong, I am still delighted to be hanging with my fifteen year-old son, and I am still happy to be his surrogate frontal lobe, at least in the short term. His physical prowess compared to mine pisses me off to no end. I resent like hell that I am fifty and my body is fifty and my body is the product of a decade or two of neglect. I wonder all the time whether my body will ever recover to the point where I can climb half of the things that he can climb right now? But with all of that said, I am doing something that appears to be better for me in ways beyond the merely the physical.

The photo attached to this post is of a massive piece of rock in the Bugaboos called the Bugaboo Spire. I am hopeful that in July of 2020 I will get a chance to ascend that thing. And yes, for the record, the mere thought of it scares the shit out of me. Every time I think about summiting that thing, I get the shakes. But honestly, the fact that I am even committed to going up there, committed to three nights in a hut on a mountain is shocking to everybody, and most of all to me. My friend Tim talks a lot about transformational adventure. I actually wrote a blog post on his new website about the topic. All that I know, I am still trying to get my head wrapped around it all, is that something is changing in me. Something is changing in my body, my mind, my spirit, wherein I am beginning to associate these outings with more than just a climb. Before I turned fifty, I joked, “better at fifty than forty”. Now I believe that I will be better at sixty-five than fifty. Maybe because it no longer seems like a pipe dream, but a path laid out before me, where I know my feet will take me, regardless and despite my own misgivings.

Continuing the Decade of Adventure

This past week in Arizona has been a hot one! Despite the heat, we have visited the Grand Canyon, Sedona, and made a trip out to Queen Canyon east of Superior to a do a little climbing. While we were there, a guy happened along who wanted to interview us. It is a fun little video, and shows a little of where we were hanging. We definitely need to head back here in the fall or spring and climb some of the other routes.

Shout out to Tim and Girthhitchguiding who has propelled us along the way.

We find a place called ATLANTIS right here in Arizona ! We have passed by it a hundred times and never knew it was there . We also learn the history of the area and its fascinating . The road was so dangerous to build they had [Prisoners do it and it took two years .

Ascending; A Poem

A sleepless night, onion paper walls defend my minds keep; while goblins, dragons, monsters untold, bash at the gate.

A ready footed guide wakes with first light, beckoning adventure.

Dolfins at play, dancing in unwanted anticipation, churn the sea of tranquility. Doubt filled breath, now wasted, evaporates in the cool morning breeze.

The giant, once slumbering stirs, it’s dented armour gleams with dawns first rays; dauntless we approach, feigning courage with each step.

An Intrepid duo embark, following upwards, quashed fear lies crumpled at the base, frayed into a messy pile. Strands of safety lead upward like webs in the beanstalk. Our guide lights our path, nimble like so many sheep watching from the crags.

Now Ascending, hold to hold, feet nervously, desperately, search for confidence. Pitch upon pitch, lofty goals now achieved, sharing sacred space with the eagles, father and son silently celebrate the triumph.

Exhausted and satisfied, sleep evades no longer, onion paper walls freshly torn, relent, welcome rest invades the keep. Another giant, silently, patiently awaits our approach. 

Sharing Sacred Space

For most of my adult life, I would consider myself a man with faith. The object of that faith however has not been constant, consistent, apparent, valued, or at times even defined. I have, like most people, I suspect, shifted on the “faith continuum” anywhere and everywhere between atheism and belief. Today, I think I would categorize myself in the camp of solid agnostic. A man filled with constant doubt, and uncertainty. Truthfully that space is one which I find it difficult to live in, but for the foreseeable future, I think that it is where I will remain; getting comfortable with mess, and doubt.

With all of that said, I have always found the mountains to be a sacred space. Whether I shared that sacred space with my late cousin Josh, or then after with my warrior wife, and now with my kid, mountains have always been, for me, a sacred space. Maybe it is the influence of the many First Nations people that I have known and been influenced by? It could also be a product of what Richard Rohr and many others call panentheism where you find the Divine in all things. I honestly don’t know what it is, but what I do know is that mountains evoke something in me, that very few other things do.

This weekend I spent 2 ½ days in the mountains with my amazing son, and an amazing friend. I have only known Tim for a couple of months, but every now and then, someone comes along in your life and you discover that your are kindred souls, something just clicks. Tim is one of those people. A side benefit is that he is an amazing alpine guide, and he sacrificed time away from his family to hang with Andrew and me and guide us up two multii-pitch climbs. His enthusiasm in imparting his vast body of alpine knowledge and experience is inspiring. But more than that, he and I share the same love for mountains, and this weekend we got to share time in that sacred space. In many ways I am envious of the fact that he lives in the mountains all the time. Andrew would love it if we packed up and moved out of Edmonton and to the mountains where he could pursue climbing and snowboarding full time. That move is not likely in the cards. But weekends like this past one, help fill the tank so to speak, and enable me to reconnect in ways that very few venues allow me to.

On Saturday we climbed Mother’s Day Butress on Cascade Mountain, a 400 metre ascent which was awe inspiring, but not all that difficult in terms of climbing. Don’t get me wrong, we were still attached to ropes and harnesses, but the level of difficulty (5.4 - 5.6 for climbing geeks) wasn’t up there. Our Sunday climb, our going to “church” climb was altogether different. Sunday offered up a 250 meter climb up the face of Tunnel Mountain on a route called Gooseberry. It was a cakewalk for our accomplished guide, but thankfully he gets his kicks out of teaching newbies like Andrew and I how to become proficient climbers as much or maybe even more than being personally challenged in terms of his own climbing career.

The climb today was probably one of the most difficult things I have ever done in my life. I fell on a mountain and learned to trust not just my guide but my equipment. I navigated pitches where at first glance I had no idea how to ascend, and then through grit and determination, found a way. I watched my kid struggle and achieve the same milestones today (minus the falling) which was a profound gift in itself. Tim provoked and encouraged us, leading us up a challenging (at least for us) adventure, where we discovered that there is more in the well, just sitting there in reserve, at our disposal, if we just put ourselves in places where there is a legitimate need to draw from it. Add to that great conversations, meals shared, wine and great beer consumed and it was a profound few days, that I will never forget.

I write this post, exhausted, bruised, cut, swollen, muscles protesting, and more importantly, full of heart, a soul refreshed, I pride not only in my own accomplishment, but in my growing and amazing young man of a son. And I reflect on the growing friendship that is built on similar passions and a perspective that enables a sharing of something sacred, ill defined, messy, mysterious, and yet at the same time vastly profound.

What does it mean to be a man?

I don’t know if you have noticed it too, but men are not the most popular people on the planet right now. On the whole, I think a lot of criticism directed towards our cohort is well deserved. The Metoo movement rightly calls out reprehensible behaviour that until just recently was largely glossed over by society, and many would argue still is; after all, we do have a self-declared misogynist in the Whitehouse.

Yes I know, there are plenty of good, decent men in the world still. Some days, I would even count myself among them. And yet, I too know in my inner core, how men have, and still do think of their counterparts, how even good men talk about women when they are not around. How even good men perpetuate stereotypical behaviour and reinforce traditional roles where women live in a subservient position.

So what does it mean, look like, to be a man? Robert Bly offers up some thoughts on this in his book Iron John. A book in which he exegetes a Grimm Brother’s fairy tale about a young prince and his journey towards manhood. Truthfully, Bly’s book is not an easy read. It is full of poetry, difficult prose, myth, and can easily bog down. I did persist and finished it just yesterday. Now I think I need to read it again. Not because I think that his book is the new manual on manhood or masculinity, not by any stretch. But it forced me to look inwards, self-examine and start asking myself difficult questions. It is not just my fifty year old self who needs to know how to be a man, but my fifteen year old son, who is teetering on the cusp of manhood as well. The stakes are kind of high.

One of the major themes throughout Bly’s book is his treatment of the “wild man”. He documents a number of variations of the wild man in numerous cultures (the hairy man, the hairy woman). I think that our contemporary society often celebrates the idea of a “wild man” a man of extremes, independent, daring, cast all caution to the wind. I know my son was smitten with this persona after watching Alex Honnold free solo El Capitan. And yet, Bly clearly states that the problem with manhood is not that we aren’t all wild men, but that most men are not at all in touch with the wild man. In other words, it is not about wanting to become the wild man, living in the woods, under a lake, covered entirely in hair, but rather, that most of us have never even ventured into the woods, and given ourselves a chance at encountering that character.

I don’t think that this means that we as men all need to buy an axe and a tent and head out into the woods to get in touch with the wild man either. Although that also seems to be a growing trend in my circles these days too.

I find it interesting that Bly highlights the genetic similarities between genders, and then focuses on the three percent which separates us. Men and women are almost genetically identical, and yet, three percent creates a vast difference. We are virtually the same, and yet not. My reading suggests that it is in trying to ignore that three percent, that leads many men to become frustrated, angry, and even at times tyrannical.

I actually don’t know the answer to the question posed in the title of this post. I know that I, like so many others, want my life to have meaning, purpose, significance, and authentic relationships. I think myself, and many men I know yearn for these things, and don’t know how to get our hands wrapped around them. I think the wild (nature) beckons many of us, because inherently the woods, the mountains, the rivers, the ocean offer up a glimpse into the transcendent, and speak whispers to that longing deep inside which we so deftly quell. And I don’t think it is enough to venture off alone either. We may encounter the wild man out there, by ourselves, but I know personally, it is in sharing a common experience where true meaning is found. Very few of us are cut out to sit atop a pole in the middle of the dessert.

If I am honest though, it is not merely company that the average man seeks. Life is full of company. We have company on our teams, in our work place, on committees, even within our families. Company rarely offers up honesty, transparency, or self evaluation. I have been enamoured for decades by the stories of the Inkling - a literary society made up of kindred spirits who regularly gathered at Magdelan College or the back of a pub in Oxford (the Eagle and Child, I have sat there, and drunk a pint in their honour). C.S. Lewis, J.R Tolkien, among many others. These stories have formed for me a standard of sorts, a demand for brutal honesty, self disclosure that truthfully I have rarely encountered (even in myself).

I think the wild man calls us out of our comfort zone, our habitual way of life, and beckons us into the woods. Into a place that is unfamiliar, where we are forced to examine our own limitations, deficiencies, and our skills and talents. It calls us down, into the ashes, into places we might not want to go; to acknowledge the wounds and stare into the grief we have accumulated along the way. I personally have found this to be mostly a solitary journey, but I don’t think it need be. I think it could be made by an intentional group of men and boys who follow the wild man into the woods. Sojourners with a common purpose built around vulnerability, to discover what it means to be a man, what it means to live life well, what it means to contribute to the betterment of our world. To ultimately discover what difference that three percent makes, in a positive manner, which celebrates the uniqueness and strength of masculinity without the need or tendency to resort to misogyny.

If you are inclined to read Bly’s rendition of the Fairy Tale, I have attached it below.

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