Ascending up from "Stove Land"

I think I have always wanted to write. Even as a kid, I think that desire was buried somewhere deep, but it was there. I read voraciously as a young person. I was reading heavy books too, Roots, Shogun, The Chronicles of Thomas R Covenant, just to name a few. Reading for me, unbeknownst to me at the time, was most likely a form of escape. The stories in those books were filled with places I could go to avoid pain. As I continue to dive deep into this journey that I am on, I am confronting the patterns of many others, and seeing similarities. Reading like I did as a youngster is definitely a common theme.

Despite the fact that I have often had a blog as an adult, I also know how much eleven years of university sucked the joy of reading and writing from my bones. It is only in the last year that I have even started to pick up a book, and the same can be said with writing. I attended a food and wine writing workshop in Kelowna in 2013, hosted by my friend Jennifer Cockrall-King, and truthfully I have often wondered why. That conference was a great experience in terms of the activities that we participated in, but the writing workshops almost had a negative effect on me, shutting down my desire to write. I think that I, like so many others, struggle with the basic notion of being a writer. What do I have to offer, what would I write that anyone would want to read?

I picked up Steven King’s “On Writing” this week and started in on it today. I started Margaret Atwood’s Master Class this week, and both offer up the sage advice that you aren’t a writer if you don’t write. So start writing! Like many who like to watch programs about cooking, but don’t cook, I think I adopted this perspective about myself in terms of writing.

I guess I had already decided a while ago that I was going to just write, regardless of what people thought about what I wrote. While this isn’t entirely true, I haven’t yet written with complete abandon, I have already let that horse out of the barn.

Back in December I asked people which book they thought changed their life.

I am indebted to my friend Dave Z for recommending “The Brothers K” by David James Duncan. It is a beast of a book! And to be honest, I have listened to this book via Audible, and not sat and read it (which probably would have been faster). I am almost finished, less than 30 minutes left in the over 28 hours of audio. I have spent a lot of time walking, and listening, getting to know the Chance family. The narrator of this book should get an Oscar (if they had one for reading audio books!). If you haven’t had a chance to read this book yet, I too, highly recommend it.

As someone who is emotionally stunted and emotionally illiterate, I am beginning to discover that books, or maybe more accurately, the accumulation of language is perhaps a key to unlocking the cage which has held all of my emotions locked up all these many years. Obviously writing about my journey in this blog has been therapy of sorts, but more than that, I am beginning to actually experience an emotional response as I listen to books like The Brothers K or Washington Black. Prior to this, I would say that it was only while watching movies that I felt any real emotions, and now that seems to have expanded to the realm of words.

The character Irwin who is emotionally damaged after his stint in Vietnam and a military mental asylum (electric shock therapy and all) begins to find his way back to being human by building wood stoves. It is his way of trying to climb back up from the nether regions of previous trauma. Irwin’s brother Peter names this intermediary emotional world as Stove Land. This idea of Stove Land resonated with me. The idea of climbing up from a world devoid of emotions, finding something to cling to, some common language to speak in the process. I am beginning to understand that perhaps writing is my Stove Land.

I know that one of the tasks at hand is to broaden, or more accurately develop, an emotional vocabulary. I don’t even have words for most of what I feel, which makes it hard to articulate those feelings with any precision. I recently finished reading “Running on Empty” by Dr. Jonice Webb and she has an appendix of words to describe one’s emotions. It is a very long list, I have a lot of words to learn.

I am also determined, perhaps not yet fully committed, to writing a book. I haven’t yet decided whether this book will be fiction, or not, whether it will be related to my life, or not, but I am going to write it. You may never get to read it. As Margaret Atwood says, the waste paper basket is God’s gift to the writer. Having said that, I will most likely eventually put it out there, with trepidation, but then as I am discovering, this is the plight of every writer. Until then, this blog and the Transcend blog will have to do.

Fu#cking Oilers! #@$*!

OK, so you didn’t like my last post filled with analogy!

Hell, I am not writing for likes or atta boys, not even views, but I thought that my desert analogy was at least moderately clever. Perhaps being clever isn’t what you want? Perhaps you are more attuned to the harsh bitter truth. Perhaps our world is more aligned with bullshit, ala Trump, and false promises. Perhaps we are more likely to respond to the drivel of Big Brother or sniveling politicians who promise us the moon and are so brash as to not even disguise the crossed fingers held up for all to see.

I attended the Oilers game tonight, with my good friend Richard and we had fun for two periods, the team was playing together (well at least not against each other). Then came the third period and all hell broke loose, the wheels fell off (or as my son commented the wagon done got blowed up!). How the hell does a team completely loose all modecome of dignity and simply pack it in? How does a professional hockey team simply decide that two periods (well if I am being honest, one and a half periods, they got lucky) is enough hockey to play. An arena full of rabid fans is not enough. A plethora of angry critics ready to pounce is not enough. Dignity and pride are not enough, obviously, as they were happy to simply collapse into a state of corporate dispondance and figuratively head for the exits, which Richard and I did with ten minutes to spare!

The problem with this game, this false pretense of hope is that it reminded me too much of my life. Take for example my dialogue with the executive director of Alberta Snow boarding last Tuesday wherein I queried whether the Slope Style competition would run, when the forecast for Calgary was -27 degrees before the wind chill. I was hoping to stave off unnecessary AirBnB charges and a trip to cowtown. I was assured that the hill (COP by Winsport) would stay open and the competition would happen no matter what. Surprise, surprise, Saturday afternoon came and we were informed by Andrew’s coarch Gerald that the Sunday event was being cancelled. Doesn’t commen sense factor into people’s lives? Isn’t a modern day forecast built around the polar vortex enough to dispel misguided hope? At least the Boy got some good practice in on Saturday, and I got a chance to visit my dear aunt and uncle whom I haven’t seen in far too long.

What is it about the human spirit which is so predisposed to deny the truth, cling to hope despite the fact that it is attached to a thin thread being cooked by a flame? Why can’t we just be realistic and acknowledge the fact that our world is doomed and headed to hell in a hand basket?

Why the hell must we be so damned hopeful, despite all the evidence?

To draw from the well of my previous analogy, hope is pretty much like the water we drink. By the way, did I neglec to articulate the frozen pipes we encoutered when we arrived back from the futile trip to cowtown? Yes it is true, my house was ill conceived by its designers, and is not built to withstand the frigid tempuratures of minus thirty-five. So I am forced to pull off kickplates, pull out the dishwasher and drag out a space heater to warm up frozen water lines. Thankfully nothing has burst but my patience!

Getting back to the damn Oilers, why do we continue to support them? Why do tens of thousands of people pay good money to plop their asses in seats, only to be disappointed? What is it about the notion of hope that we collectively cling to like a bear on a wire, desperate for a snack?

This isn’t rhetoric people! I don’t have a frickin clue as to why we persist to hope despite all evidence to the contrary. When speaking of the Oilers, perhaps it is collective sympathy for Connor McDavid? But when speaking of life in general, I am at a loss to understand why we as humans are predisposed to remain hopeful, despite the failings of systems, family, and the institutions we rely on.

Driving home tonight, all that I could think about is how the city of Edmonton transportation system has failed us Edmontonians by making a decision to not sand our roads and giving us up to navigating iceways without the benefit of skates. All I could think of was how elections have become reduced to vulgar popularity contests built on lies and false promises. All I could think of was how my wife has been subject to a broken system of health care which cares more about denial and self preservation than the hypocratic oath. The list could go on.

Why the hell do I care?

But despite it all, I do care. I am outraged because I see injustice, see inequality, see persistent sexism, racism, see the rich trample the poor, see those in power abuse their privilege to maintain their position and status…. and I see that I am now simply rambling, simply spewing diatribes, reliving the past trauma of my travels which exposed me to poverty and inhumanity which frankly have deeply scarred me.

So maybe that is why the Oiler’s inability to win a game is so troubling? Perhaps it is the analagous nature of a hockey game which forces me to examine my own life, and see it for what it truly is. Perhaps it is this internal conflict, this tightrope that I walk between hope and despair….

Analogy seemingly didn’t resonate, so now I offer up broken rambling fucking honesty.

How much water should you drink when hiking in Death Valley?

How many litres of water do you need to drink while out hiking in Death Valley? This isn’t likely a question you have been asked recently, or even pondered. I rarely drink enough water during any physical activity. I find that while I ride, or hike, or even work outside, that stopping to drink seems inconvenient, almost bothersome. But there comes a point in time, when despite the interruption, my body (now parched) screams for water, and it is at that point when drinking water rarely seems to quench my thirst.

I have been living along side chronic pain now for quite some time. Living with chronic pain is harder than living beside someone who suffers from it. I know this all too well. I am not the one who is confined to a bed with perpetual migraines, not the one pushing the limits on barely effective medications just to eke out a semblance of a human existence. The confines of chronic pain are immense, and the isolation that accompanies it is cruel.

Loading up with enough water for a hike is a relatively easy endeavour. While it might seem inconvenient and burdensome at the beginning of the excursion, the burden lessens as one progresses and more than that, the water sustains and enables the journey in and of itself. 

Hope is a lot like water. 

Venturing out into the desert without enough water will likely prove to be a fatal excursion. Venturing on the journey of life without hope, is not life threatening in the physical sense, but I think it is “life” threatening on a psychological and emotional level. People without hope tend to perish in one way or another.

Being prepared for a long hike in a hot climate isn’t too difficult. Light clothes, a good hat, perhaps sunscreen, some trail mix and of course plenty of water. Living with chronic pain is a lot like setting out for the anticipated hike, getting half way out, and discovering that the vessel that you used to carry your water has a leak. A leaky bottle is akin to hope dashed. Too many hikes into the hot sun with a leaky bottle results in the loss of hope. 

Hopelessness is lot like leaky water bottles.

What’s funny (not really) is that many people who never spend any time hiking in the desert, seem anxious to offer advice on how to do that successfully. It seems odd to me that people feel compelled to wade in with their advice, the snacks to bring, the kind of attire to wear, and especially how best to avoid leaky water bottles. Everyone seems to be an expert on how to avoid leaky water bottles! Even better is how many times people ask whether we have even packed any water for the perilous excursion? 

The reality though is that the average hiker can only handle so many excursions into the hot sun, where the hike started in a state of being fully prepared, only to discover that despite best efforts, you are out of water before the journey is half finished. Like a rat in a Skinner box, too many failed excursions (punishment) can result in a state where there is no longer even a desire to venture out.

Despite our learned aversion to excursions, our family recently geared up and ventured out into the desert once again. Like every time previously, we have begun this journey well prepared, even managing to scrounge up some new water bottles, after checking them all thoroughly for leaks. Time alone will reveal whether these vessels will endure until the end of this excursion. 

Hope is a lot like water.

2019 - So What!

SO WHAT!

IT’S JUST NOT THAT BIG A DEAL!

WHO THE HELL CARES?!

These are the questions ringing inside my head these days.

It is true, I was born in the year 1969, the year which witnessed 350,000 hippies dancing in the mud at Woodstock, astronaut Neil Armstrong making one giant leap for mankind, and also marked the Beatles last live concert in London. In 1969, the year my house was built (ironically), it probably was worth about $15,000 which was roughly double the amount that I might earn in that year (gotta love that math). And on April 16th, in the Calgary General Hospital, I was born to a young pair who weren’t yet ready to be parents and gave me up for adoption.

This past week my good friend David Legg, after a twenty-five year absence, moved back to Alberta to live out the dreams we talked so much about when we were twenty somethings. I had bright orange thick curly hair back then! As we caught up over cocktails and some hot wings, he quipped that I am likely the most intense person he has ever met. I think he meant it as a compliment, at least I took it that way - if nothing else, a backhanded one. Those of you who do know me, would likely agree with Mr. Legg in his characterization. Hell even I know it is true (what do they call me, oh right, a bull in a china shop). For the last forty-nine and three quarter years, I have found the intensity burning inside of me is at the same time a blessing and a curse. This past year was one of the most difficult years of my life thus far. I won’t bore you with the details, but it was nothing if not a disruptive twelve months. A year marked by my intensity breaching its containment shields and spilling out burning everything in its wake, but mostly just burning me. The year 2018 will go down in the history of Poul Mark as the year of deep self reflection. But more importantly it will be remembered, at least by me, as the year I first noticed that the path before me was shorter than the path a had already traveled. It will be remembered as the year that I seriously took note of my impending birthday.

I have much to be thankful for! I know that. If I am not one of the “one percent” I am at least one of the “three percent” on this planet. I live a blessed life. I have an amazing beautiful warrior wife and an awesome son. I am blessed with an education, relatively good health, and a career which I cherish and challenges me almost everyday. I have a diverse set of friends both near and far, and live essentially as did nobility in centuries past. In fact, I know that it is this blessed life that affords me the opportunity to spend time reflecting and writing; instead of simply toiling each day for my basic survival. Knowing all of this, what more could a man ask for?

And for almost fifty years I haven’t asked for much else. And yet, as I begin to crest that mid century hill, I also know that I have only half lived most of my previous years. I have lived incased a self made shell which has served to both protect me at times, but has mostly prevented me from truly entering into the joy, the pain, the emotions of many of those years. It is this forged suit of armour that I want to escape from; if not this coming year, then sooner rather than later. I get that many do not understand, do not see the effects of the armour that I wear. But nonetheless it is real, and my intensity is both the lock and the key to my emotional freedom.

This post, I realize is obtuse. My self assessment and reasoning, jumbled and likely flawed. But that is where I find myself on the eve of my impending mid century mark. I find myself in a state of inner turmoil, confounded with my many blessings, and at the same time, keenly aware of the many deficits I am in possession of. It is the beginning of a new year, and having never been a man to adopt a new year’s resolution, I won’t begin that fraught tradition now. However, I am committed, more than ever in my life before, to press in, and not fall back into the old habits of avoidance and deflection. I honestly don’t know how to unbuckle the armour I find myself incased in, but with the help of those in my life who love me, perhaps, this might yet be the year, that I finally can leave that gleaming pile of metal in a heap on the path behind me.

Unexpected Interruptions

On a bitterly cold winter day, fifteen years hence, my life was interrupted. It wasn’t a surprise, I knew the interruption was imminent, longed for, even delayed. I had been anxiously awaiting that moment for ten months, anticipating the birth of my child (didn’t know it was a boy) with unbridled excitement that was a cocktail of uncertainty, hope, pride, and a dash of healthy fear.

When the time finally came, we were ready. Well my part was easy - pace, support, and wait. Michelle, on the other hand, was in labour for over twenty-two hours. The baby was just so relaxed and calm, not in a rush to meet the world, comfortable inside his windowless carriage. Michelle was a warrior, as always! I think that giving birth was an initiation of sorts for her, going med free, intervention free, enduring almost an entire day of labour without a single cry. Despite the fact that she has a “heart big enough for two” and is one of the most empathetic people I know, she is tough as nails, and she didn’t even grow up on a farm! I marvel with each passing day, how she endures the mental and physical anguish she is confronted with.

But back to the interruption…..

When Andrew Allan Mark was born on January 2nd, 2004 he didn’t even cry. When I recently told him that, he was surprised too, asking aren’t all babies supposed to cry when they are born? Not when they are already breathing, said I. He was born ready to interrupt.

The Boy and his father

This past year has been somewhat monumental for me, as you probably already know, if you frequent this space on the internet. As I have reflected on the nearly fifty years of breath I have had on this fragile spec of a planet, I am starting to see an accumulation of unexpected interruptions. The first one (undocumented as of yet) when I was twelve, then seventeen, graduation, Denmark, a cheque for $500, the University of Lethbridge, Michelle, marriage, presidency, grad school, law school, getting fired, and then THE BOY! There have been many unexpected interruptions since the one on January 2nd, 2004 but none so life altering.

I penned a poem for Andrew this year, and gave it to him for Christmas. I knew that it would be hard for him to understand, the imagery isn’t immediately accessible. So I sat down with him one morning and walked him through the events described in the poem. It was an amazing experience, for both of us I think. When he first received the poem on Christmas Day, he spent time reading it, and was appreciative, but after we read it together and I explained the significance of the words, he was moved. It is probably one of the best things I have ever done as a dad. I am astounded almost daily how I got so lucky to have a kid like I do. He isn’t anything close to perfect, but he is an amazing kid. I would be far less human without him in my life, that much I know. When I finished walking him through the poem, he was quiet for a bit, and then looked at me, said “I love you dad” and gave me a hug. The relationship I have with my “teenager” amazes me. Yes we fight, and we both make each other rage at times, but on the whole, we are on a journey together, which I know is a blessing. We still share Michelle, snow, mountains, golf, travel, and a desire for adventure. It is more than I could have ever dreamt of.

My friend Greg Zeschuk was recently notified that he is to receive the Order of Canada. When I found out I was very proud of him, and I found myself a little envious. You see, we are almost the same age, he has four months on me. Upon self reflection, I found myself wondering what I had accomplished these past fifty years, definitely nothing which has had an impact on our nation like my dear friend. And not to diminish in any way the significance of the Order of Canada, I found that I only had to look at my son Andrew to exit that short lived state of funk.

I added the previously referred to quote by Maya Angelou to the header of my website today.

Open your eyes to the beauty around you, open your mind to the wonders of life, open your heart to those who love you, and always be true to yourself.

Today I will celebrate (with those who love us) the birth of my son Andrew who is fifteen years old. I don’t know how it is possible that he is already that old, but I do know how much I love this BOY. I know how much he has shaped my life, altered it, interrupted it, and for that I will be forever grateful.

Here is the poem that I wrote for Andrew this Christmas. I called it THE BOY. If you ever want me to walk you through the imagery I would be happy too.

Crisp azure sky, sun hovering above unbending horizon.

Ribbons of concrete stretch out long in both directions.

An unexpected call shatters the welcome silence, unrestrained news!

My watch stopped, unbroken, the wind holds fast at the intersection of time, yielding to my passing by.

Salty swollen eyes, gaze into the future. A child, a miracle. It was not meant to be, despite Abraham’s abundant seed!

Now we wait, anxious anticipation, fortnights, seven, strewn about, thirteen more cue up like soldiers ready for inspection.

Even then you traveled, warm inside your windowless carriage, destined to see the world. Wallace, Stirling, even a Saint in your name. Chasing Highland sheep, heather underfoot, land of scorched thistles, wilting in hot sun.

A Fall of uncertainty, stained with a father’s defiant shame. Faltering steps, tilting, bracing against the tide, not yet ready to be your OLD MAN.

Resting easy under a patchwork quilt sown of a mother’s love. Deaf to the doomed proclamation of a dragon, concerned more with her hoards of gold, you slept confidently, quietly, unconcerned with what lie ahead.

A new year breaks through frozen sheets of time. A winter etched in our hearts, brittle, and brimming with hope. Silent screams of welcome pain, time now bending its knee, as we wait.

Undeterred, you arrive in your time, unkempt, adorned in a chalky gown. Not a cry to announce your arrival, peace in hand, beauty in the other. A new Old Man weeps tears of joy, a mother’s tired eyes smile down at you.

The Boy, author of welcome interruption, snatching up my pen with pink hands, a predictable story disrupted, tossed aside, forever altered. A new story unfolds, adventure, challenge, a path of unbridled joy now visible. We march lockstep, brave into the unknown. 

Core Values

Almost five years ago, Transcend went through a process of establishing its core values. At the time, I actually didn't put much stock in the process. I have never been a fan of all the corporate mumbo jumbo that companies get excited about. I have little patience with CSR (corporate social responsibility) initiatives; don’t get me wrong, I am all a huge supporter of business being responsible and participating members of their communities, I just cringe at those efforts when they are dressed up marketing efforts. What I have learned in the ensuing years since we adopted ours, is that they must be CORE VALUES. This means that everyone in your organization needs to not only know what they are, but actually live them out. They need to essentially be the DNA of your organization which informs all decisions, who you hire, who you fire. They should define and nurture your culture. All of this, I have learned, takes time and a significant amount of intentionality and resources.

Recently, I have been thinking about my own personal core values. Brené Brown actually talks about this in her most recent book Dare to Lead. She encourages the self evaluation which ends up with identifying personal core values. While I am not sure I have nailed down my two core values yet, I definitely know that one of them is generosity. I am not sure when and where it was hardwired into my core, but along the way it has come to define me. I am not saying that I am always generous. For example, I am still learning how to be more generous in my assumptions towards others, shedding the cynicism which I became all too comfortable with these past years. Maybe another core value for me is community, I am not sure, perhaps transparency? Regardless, it is useful to work through the process of identifying the one or two things which drive most of your decisions and serve to motivate one’s actions.

Why am I writing about this today? Well in short, I received an email from my kid’s principal today where they announced the new branding for his school. As with most rebranding exercises, the logo changes are subtle, and to understand all of the nuances behind why one part is this colour or that is lost on almost everyone outside (and often within) of the organization. But what truly struck me and more accurately made me angry is the list of core values that accompanied the announcement of the new logo.

Learning should be rigorous and relevant

Teaching is learner centred

Students are complex, dynamic and capable

Effective instruction is engaging and empowering

Assessment clarifies goals, feedback and success

We are a positive and dedicated community

All means all

One of the fundamental aspects of core values is that everyone in the organization knows and lives by those core values. As I read through the list above, my instant reaction was that there is no way in hell that my kid knows these core values, let alone allows them to inform how he lives out each day at the school. I am not saying that there aren’t positive sentiments, even truth, represented in the values, but I am highly suspicious that all the students (probably not even all the teachers) allow these stated values to impact their lives in any meaningful way. And if what is said about is true, that teaching is “learner centred” shouldn’t the core values be about the students and not the teachers? Wouldn’t this make for a better learning environment? But alas, that educational model simply isn’t efficient, isn’t affordable, so we persist in antiquated models of assessment that have little if nothing to do with learning.

If you have read this far, I applaud your persistence and your generous offering of your time. I realize that this post has little to do with my journey, other than I felt compelled to write something after being pissed off. So maybe it does have something to do with my journey after all? Normally I would just quietly swear to myself and let my frustration sink inwards, which is probably why I became such a cynic! Maybe this writing will prevent another brick being laid in that wall that I am trying so desperately to knock down.

For the record here are the Core Values for Transcend Coffee

Celebrate Taste

Never Best only Better

Build and Foster Community

Never Stop Learning

Exceed Expectations

What is School For?

My kid sent me this video to watch this morning. As I watched it, I found tears streaming down my face, as I know why he sent it to me. You see, my kid is one of the really SMART kids, who doesn’t SCORE well at school. If it wasn’t for sports and shop class, I don’t think my kid would have any sense of value within the school system. On the whole, his experience at school has knocked him down and made him feel like he doesn't have what it takes to succeed. Truthfully I am at a loss to know where he should go to experience something positive in the next three years. Maybe INNOVATIONPLAYLIST.ORG is the spark to ignite some much needed change.

Which Book Changed Your Life?

I just finished reading Esi Edugyan’s amazing novel Washington Black. This book rocked my world. I spent over nineteen hours walking the ravine with my dog Charlie, getting to know a young boy, a slave, born in the Barbados. It is early in the 1800’s and for three weeks, I journeyed alongside this courageous boy, as he traveled and became a young man. I can’t recommend this novel with enough of the credit it deserves. I finished this book yesterday, and the ending shocked me, emotionally wounded me (in a good way). It even prompted me to write a poem about the journey, although it isn’t finished (and truthfully might never be)…..

Now I am looking for something else to listen to as I walk my dog Charlie, and that is where you come in, hopefully. What book changed your world? I am not talking Nancy Drew or the Hardy Boys here, but more Shogun, or Roots! If you would let me know what I should read next, I would be most appreciative.

On Being a Dad

One of the main motivators which precipitated this journey into the mess of my life was my son Andrew, who I have given over to referring to as The Boy. There are only a handful of people in my life (he, my wife, a few others) who have my heart fully (flawed as it is). In the process of reading Brené Brown’s books, I began to realize that I needed to figure out how to be fully human so that in part, I could model something better to my son, than I have done in the first fifteen years of his life.

For most that know me, even a little, I think it safe to assume that my affection for my son is self-evident. With that said, my tendency has been to express that deep affection via indulgence both in goods and time. Being the father of a single child enables this kind of attention, in ways that those with multiple children, probably can’t afford, on either of those fronts. When Andrew was eight years old, he expressed how distressing he found my many trips away buying coffee. The solution seemed simple to me, although not ideal; find someone else to buy green coffee for Transcend. While I have never loved the “getting somewhere” I have always loved the “being somewhere” and truthfully, although rarely spoken, that decision was a significant sacrifice for me. I was giving something up, that was not just critical to my business, but something that I found profound meaning in and had shaped me in ways, too many to count. It is however, a sacrifice that I count as a blessing, and would do it all over again.

I know that I spoil my kid. I know that many of his friends are likely jealous of him, and what he has, what he gets to do, just like I was jealous when I was young, and watched with envy from the sidelines as my friends rode new motorbikes, drove new cars, had better clothes. I know that my indulgent approach to affection emanates from my own experience. I am a gift-giver, it is my “love language” but truthfully it is just easy! I enjoy shopping, I enjoy finding something that I think others would appreciate and buying it for them. But I also know that this form of affection is in part, a copout. It is easy to give a gift, it is far harder to share deeply held emotions. It is even relatively easy to spend time with my son, when he and I share common interests (surprise surprise, I nurtured a love of golf and snow in him, and steered him away from hockey!). It isn’t much of a sacrifice to head to the mountains, and spend a couple of days on the slopes, even if all that I am now is a glorified camera man.

So in large part, this journey I am on, is about him, my warrior wife, and our family. I want to live differently during these last decades of my life, and I want to give him the gift of learning how to live fully, embracing the messy middle, embracing his emotions, embracing all that life has to offer up, so that he can reap the benefits of a life well lived before he turns fifty!

I am in the midst of writing a poem for him for Christmas. Yes he will get gifts too, but whether he appreciates it now, or not, I want to give him something from my core. That poem is proving difficult to write, and I am struggling to convey his story, which I find interesting. Unlike this poem, which I wrote while laying in bed last night, unable to sleep.

Tears of joy, tears of trepidation, announced with rasping cries, cracking like thunder, disruptive, rapturous first breaths.

A tsunami of possibility, decades flash across my vision, blinking then gone.

Crushing love spills from the jigger, a dash of hope, a twist of fear, shaken and poured, a cocktail of what might be.

I drink, parched cracked lips never satisfied. Dependant and now powerless to resist, forever blinded by your beauty.

Stammering now, years fleeing, hounds at bay, your innocence evaporates in the heat of my gaze. Too soon you are my rival. Too soon will my conversation fail to hold your ear.

Knees now creek with joy, your vigour relentless, all that I hoped. Now exhausted I lag behind, soon satisfied to only watch from a distance. 

A chair at the end of the lane now bears my weight, heavy eyelids straining to see a shadow on the horizon, beckoning your presence, craving a momentary embrace. Until then, memories will suffice! 

This poem is about me, about fatherhood, and I think that is why it was easier to pen. Hopefully it is also a bit representative of most fathers hopes and fears concerning their children. And my hope in this journey is that as I examine my own emotions, and begin to find ways (seemingly poetry) to express these feelings, I will be able to give The Boy a gift that will never fade, never wear out, and one that he will be able to give to his children, should he choose to be a father.

For now, I know that I am blessed, in the middle of this mess. I have The Boy, almost fifteen, who still enjoys my presence, who still wants to do things with me, beat me in pingpong, drive a ball further down the fairway. Looking back on where I was at his age, I know how lucky that I am. And I am beginning to hold out hope, that if nothing else, this journey might offer up the joy of having a continuous relationship with my son, throughout all of his years.

A few Poems of late that I haven't yet put out there.

Poetry is an interesting form of writing. For me, at times, it comes easy, seemingly flowing out of my fingers into the keyboard. But then when I want to write about a specific subject matter, aka my son or a gathering, the words seem to falter. The two poems below are of the first type, where little thought about them occurred and I simply wrote what came to me. I like this form the most, although, the more deliberate form might work too, the jury is still out. Regardless, it has been a year of poetry for me. More than that, I have preformed most of them on my instagram feed. Who wudda thunk it!

Haggard Young Man

Haggard young man, alive, aware, full of regrets. Half a century at his back, a life walled up with stones of silence. Decades of duplicity, the jester, the priest, the duke of anywhere. Feigned recklessness and bravery adorn his armour, glistening, velvet cape draped round.

Knowledge for currency, stacked neatly in a vault. Riches beyond measure, burn brightly, fuelled with poverty poured out, drenched brands burn cold and blue with fury.

The drunk king demands more wine, the warrior’s sword shattered. A mage alone in the corner doubts visions now clouded in haze.

A whale not in the distance stalks the boat. The tempest rages, waves crash hard on oiled hewn boards, and still the sailers whisper, afraid to act. Alone, afraid the man awaits his due, black waters beckon, the path marked, bones, straws, signs, announce rejected instructions. 

His face set like flint against the task, trust just out of grasp. The night fades into orange, and dim light brings delusions, fragile dreams offered up, smouldering ash filled bowls.

Haggard young man, alive, aware, alone, without home. Half a century at his back, nowhere to call his own. His glass filled with soft tannins, brick red rimmed, once fresh, now fit for tired tongue.

Visions of a new journey, flit around the edges, gates open wide, a king and his subjects sit in ashes. A hot wind blows, pulling the plant up from the cracked ground. Refuge, anger, pain, alive in its shade. The haggard young man, for now, waits impatiently in uneasy rest.

Bullshit

Mutual affection, gazing in unison, fixated on common objects demanding attention.

Two or three gather, perhaps more, common presence declares a community, fellowship. Hearts laid bare, hopes and dreams foretold, revealed, caressed, dashed, restored.

BULLSHIT

Emotions reigned tight, hearts walled in stone. Words laid down carefully in manicured patios proudly for all to see. Polished patios constructed with words, carefully tended, ringed with high walls of busyness, self-made obligation. Polished patios carefully adorned with welcoming chairs of gleaming coals.

BULLSHIT

A bounty of nourishment, food, drink, conversation, prayer, and concern. Empathy, thick as onion paper flows freely, suffocating sympathy fills the room. Hearts laid bare, seized, too long only pumping air.

BULLSHIT

Deluded dreams, laced with angst and disdain. Bitter wine poured out in brimming goblets of hospitality. Ripe platters of loneliness distributed with cheerless smiles. Sisyphus holds court in the corner with yarns of adventure gone cold.

BULLSHIT

But did not our hearts burn, yearn, crave more? Buoyed hope carried upon inauthentic waves, shallow pools stretched wide with the promise of care and meaning.

BULLSHIT

Wanted dead or alive, but mostly dead!

This week, I met with Maddie, my newly appointed spiritual advisor. If I am sounding cavalier about this, it is unintended, in fact anything but that! I am astonished that she would actually sign up for the job, given the fact that she has a fair amount of previous unrelated experience with me. Our meetings are not complicated. Essentially I talk, she listens, asks a few timely questions, I fight back tears and emotions as I recall memories. It sounds simple, but in the midst of all of it, I know something profound is at work within me, and I have no words to express my deep gratitude towards this wise woman.

As I recounted much of my story this week (abridged version) one thing became clear to me. I am not a big fan of this guy.

The picture is obviously a grad pic of me in 1987. What do they say, it was the best of times it was the worst of times!

I won’t bore you with the gory details, but nonetheless, my last year of high school was anything but a walk in the park. Graduating with a small handful of people most of whom you have spent your entire life with up to that point. That last year was filled with much upheaval. It culminated a journey spanning twelve years, where for the most part, I was ridiculed for those ears, those goggles and that “howdy doody” hair (just think, now I’d be called a Ginger).

What I am beginning to see is that a tendency of mine began that year. I established a pattern of running and hiding. I would always hide in plain site, but learned, or maybe more accurately, taught myself to adapt, to blend in, to become the person I thought the people around me wanted me to be. And perhaps most importantly, at least at this juncture in my life, I made an effort, albeit a subconscious one, to run from this tormented fellow. Shortly after the photo above was taken, I escaped to Denmark. There, I largely reinvented myself, dumping the cowboy persona, and adopting that of a pipe smoking, clog wearing, bearded hippy.

I will write more on that time later, for I have much to apologize for as a result of that journey, but that is not for today.

Thirty years later, I am find myself confronted with this guy. His awkwardness, his fears, his pain. I am being confronted with his many faults, his many failures, and in the midst of all of that, some amazing relationships too. Even as I write this post, I am confronted with the muted (the best I can do at this point) emotions from that time. While looking for that photo, I found many others, with many people who I rarely think of anymore. Needless to say, it wasn’t a cherry box to rummage through tonight. But it is my box, and it is my history. It is I am sure, like many, a very flawed history. There is laughter to be sure, but there is much loneliness, much confusion, much pain. I think it is probably why I embarked on my “adventure” abroad, and never looked back. I was running from all of that, and also running from the guy pictured above.

Maddie tells me that I need to figure out how to love that guy. I haven’t figured that out yet. Actually I am still (this week in fact) talking about killing that guy off for good. Maybe this isn’t all that odd, I actually don’t know how much of this is a common experience. What I do know is that a pattern began back then, where I developed my chameleon superpower, fuelled by shame, and insecurity. And now, thirty years later, I am realizing that far from discovering a superpower, I built for myself a super prison, walling in my emotions, and effectively (inadvertently) keeping out any beneficial emotions in the process.

So now I have begun to dismantle the immense dam I have spent a lifetime building, brick by brick, slowly, out of fear that dismantling it too fast will result in a full breach; the resulting spill creating chaos and destruction on the dry land downstream. With all of that said, standing on the wall above that dry valley, I think I can make out an old riverbed, longing to have water flowing through it once again. And maybe, just maybe, I can make out the guy above standing down there, smiling, waving, welcoming me home?

Bullshit and the middle of the Mess

I had a chance to catch up this week with a friend (and colleague) that I haven’t seen in a while. I enjoy these lunch dates. Rarely do I dine at “supper time” but I find the middle of the day a great time to connect and catch up.

Plug for the Marc and their Wednesday Burger, always a highlight!

During lunch, I expressed to my friend this growing need within me to pen a book. I have wanted to write a book for a long time, and have even had a working title and table of contents saved on my computer for years now. But, I just don’t know whether people want to read about my journey into the world of coffee?

Carolyn had what might be a brilliant idea for me though. She suggested that I write a book on Bullshit. She said my naturally “grumpy” disposition (she meant that as a compliment, I am sure) was perfect for the subject matter.

You may not be a humorist Poul, but you have sarcasm enough to make up for that!

The idea has stuck with me for the rest of the week. I have witnessed so much bullshit in the world of coffee, just as I know you have witnessed a ton of bullshit in your life. I think Bullshit is a common thread in all of our lives for that matter.

Everyday, I am confronted with bullshit advertising in coffee, bullshit claims about sustainability and ethics, bullshit corporate social responsibility, the list goes on and on. So perhaps there is a book in the middle of all of this mess.

I am beginning to realize that the mess is really where all of life happens. I am just starting to come to grips with how to reside in the middle of the mess and not succumb to the panicked emotions clambering for escape. To live in the middle of the mess where I am not desperately grasping for recognition and praise, affection, and affirmation. To live in the messy middle where I can be free with my emotions, but not controlled or enslaved by them. To revel in moments of anger, angst, and then in the next moment feel joy and hope without thinking that I am losing my mind. This journey of unravelling started with a vague notion that there was a destination at the end, somewhere to get off, an oasis of contentment. But as I continue down the path I am on, I am beginning to wonder if that oasis in the distance is just a mirage, and that I am destined to journey onward despite it all.

I am starting to get a glimpse that living in the middle of the mess, learning how to be content in the middle of the mess, learning how to revel in the mess, is perhaps the destination. To have the freedom to cry BULLSHIT when appropriate and then to raise a glass and shout CHEERS in celebration, all within the same day, the same moment, is not madness.

The writing of a book may not be in the cards, perhaps all I have in me are muddled thoughts on the screen of a mostly unread blog. But regardless, I am starting to understand, albeit slowly, that my journey will likely never lead me out of the middle of the mess.

_________________

wrote a couple of poems this week about some of this stuff….. this one is called Stirrings.

Unfamiliar stirrings, unwelcome, yet ironically full of promise, declared the spectators.

Dubious silent lament, accompany my journey, heavy upon my shoulders. A broken compass in one hand, a snuffed lantern in the other. 

Uneven the path extends before me, shrouded in fog and relentless chill. Stiff with uncertainty I move forward, possessed only with awkward trust.

Cruel memories of fellowship haunt me. Flashes of warm conversation and laughter weigh down my garments, as if heavy with rain.

Fleeting whispers of hope echo off the barren landscape, dragging me forward, ignoring parched lips. 

Far off, a dim light flickers just above the horizon, doubt floods in, is it only a mirage in this frozen desert? Taunts of something more emanate and beckon me forward on weary limbs. 

A crumpled and faded map leads me onward, a promised oasis of wisdom and contentment. Heavy footsteps crunch and break the silence beneath me. A gnawing pang drags me along, mocking the looming urge to succumb to the surrounding wilderness.

The Journey Continues

It’s hard to fathom that it has almost been a month since I last wrote. Time slips quietly through my fingers. We try so hard to grow up when we are young, and then as we age, we do everything we can to slow that process. Alas she tarries for no one.

Since last my fingers danced on the keyboard, it seems like much has happened. A trip to Victoria was made, where I spent some quality time with old friends, new friends, beaches, little mountains, inspiring some writing of poetry (which surprised even me). Came home from that trip with some Island Pinot, and a new painting by Terry Fenton called “Awakenings” (I kid you not!) which is the header of this post. Something about that sunrise over the prairies spoke to me, and it now hangs in our living room as a reminder of this journey that I am on.

In the last month, I have also had the chance to visit my psychologist a few more times. We have been doing some therapy called EMDR which has been interesting. To be honest, I am not sure what impact that this therapy is having on me? What I am learning in the process is that I am a very “cerebral” person, and have spent most of my life in my head. If nothing else, the EMDR therapy is forcing me to pay attention to the rest of my body, and get curious about what it is trying to communicate along the way.

Walking continues to be one of the most significant new things in my life. Spending time outside every day, walking Charlie, listening to books (mostly Brené Brown) but also a little fiction now too by Gene Wolfe which has been something of an awakening as well.

And (despite Brené’s numbing label) I am also on a drinking journey. I have been discovering all of these amazing new natural wines which has been a lot of fun. The drinking journey has been pretty selfish for the most part (I have shared a little with a few) which perhaps is how I like it when it comes to wine, most of the time.

So perchance, in all of this, I am becoming more human? Seems an odd question, but appropriate nonetheless. Still in all of this, I continue to journey into a place, unknown. Like Abraham, I am on a path towards a destination unknown, and frankly, an outcome that remains hidden to me. I am slowly starting to relish the notion of getting comfortable in my not belonging, but perhaps belonging everywhere? I am trying to do what Maya Angelou counsels

Open your eyes to the beauty around you, open your mind to the wonders of life, open your heart to those who love you, and always be true to yourself.

I want to drink in more of what she writes, more of what so many others have written, and lived, and try and figure out how it can make me more human. And so I wrestle with my doubts, my anger, my aloneness, my wealth, my privilege, my poverty…

I think what I want more than anything is to be content, content with all of my frailty, all of my questions, all of my shortcomings, all of my strengths, content with me, content in my own skin. I want to be free of the impact of other’s expectations both real and perceived. I want to be free to laugh and cry, swear, and dance, none of which I am very good at right now (OK I am pretty good at swearing).

I am also slowly realizing that I have been trapped by my past. I am starting to see that my experience of community during my time at the U of L has in many ways, robbed me of an ability to truly enter into meaningful community in the present. My time in Lethbridge was a gift, but in a strange way it was a cruel gift, which created an expectation in my mind which has never since been replicated. And if I am honest with myself, it probably wasn’t as good as I remember it either, knowing now how unreliable our memories are, and how prone we as humans are to manufacturing our own personal history.

So while I have no idea where I am headed, or what I will look like when I get there, or whether I will ever get there, I know this. I want to live my life on purpose. I want there to be purpose in all that I do. I want to drink, eat, converse, walk, work, play, relate on purpose. And perhaps, if I can live in the knowledge and confidence that PURPOSE is at my core, then perhaps, I can finally settle into that place wherever it is, a place named content.

The Windhover

For reasons I can’t explain, this poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins has been bouncing around in my head. It has also led me to remember Paul Upton who despite a rocky start, inspired me in the realm of literature during my time at the U of L.

I caught this morning morning’s minion, king- dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing, As a skate’s heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding Stirred for a bird,—the achieve of; the mastery of the thing! Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier! No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear, Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.

I don't care what people think... (no… actually I do)

Lately I have been combing my memories looking back at my childhood for instances that gave me cause to start putting on the armour that I wear. I saw a new therapist for the first time on Saturday, and Cheryl listened patiently to me ramble on, with no clarity of why I was really there, other than a sense that I need some help navigating the quagmire that I currently find myself in. It reminds me a lot of the scene in Lord of the Rings where Bilbo and Sam are trying to make their way through the swamp of the dead, and Gollum keeps telling them not to look down, and hurry up so they don't end up there forever. Right now, it kind of feels like my journey is stuck in that swamp, caught between what I am discovering, and the destination (at this point unknown).

For a long time, probaby as long as I can remember, I have been very insecure. I was an awkward kid, with Howdy Doody orange hair (adults commented and kids teased) glasses, and a head that hadn't grown big enough to fit my ears. I remember getting called "goggles piizano", "big ears", "carrot top" all of which seem pretty trivial to me now, but back then it was anything but. My therapist told me that children develop their sense of who they are between the ages of three and twelve, and I definitely would have internalized that I wasn't cool, wasn't good enough, wasn't a lot of things during those formative years. She also said that those years are when kids start to self protect, and I definitely did those things, namely started putting on the armour and the persona built around the act of "I don't care what anyone thinks".

My indifference was almost universal. While I knew I was smart, I also quickly came to an understanding that being too smart only invited ridicule from my peers as well, so I stopped trying, and started to coast, an unfortunate habit that has dogged me my entire life. Unless of course, someone could inspire me, and then I would go all in. I had a teacher in Grade Six, Mr. Norton, who found a way to inspire me, and frankly our whole class. He made us feel so smart, he told us we were smart, he tapped into something that made me want to try, to give it my all. I remember him teaching us about base 5 math - he told us that it was the math he was teaching to his university students. It was the only year during my primary eduction that I got honours. After Grade Six I went back to not caring. That pattern of not caring took me through eleven years of univsity culminating with a degree in Law. Sounds strange now, but looking back I see how much more I could have gleaned from my many years of attending school, if I had just allowed myself to care about the process a bit more.

Not caring was a great coat of armour, thick and strong enough to protect me from the hurt of rejection. Not fitting in was a pretty common theme of my life, and yet that is all I wanted to do. I tried so hard (too hard) and as a result came off desparate most of the time, which isn't a very endearing quality. I was always too intense, too talkative, too verbal. Even the seed of becoming a lawyer was planted early on, as I was always talking and arguing, and being told I would make a good lawyer when I grew up.

I retreated into books, I read voraciously as a kid, often staying up until three in the morning reading books (crazy big books) like Roots, Shogun, and all kinds of fantasy novels. What kind of twelve year-old reads Roots? Don't get me wrong, from the outside my life looked pretty normal, pretty average for a kid growing up in rural Alberta. I liked motobikes and horses, I was a cowboy in the making. But what I am beginning to realize now is that I wanted desperately to fit in, to be popular, to not be the kid that everyone mocked, to not be the kid that was laughed at.

The shame associated with those formative years, appears to be the thing I have to deal with now, at the age of forty-nine. My therapist told me, in a very matter-of-fact way that I am essentially emotionally paralyzed from the neck down. In other words, I just don't know how to relate on an emotional level, as I learned early on that living in my head hurts way less. And she is right. I have cultivated an identity over decades that is built around my brain. I am quick, combative, fearless, impulsive, intimidating, reckless, confident, brash, at times a bully, relentless (I have been called a Bull in a China shop more than once). All of which I have worn proudly, like the boy scout that I once was. Becoming an expert in coffee, wine, cooking (sort of) all of which gave me a sense of importance. Being perceived as fearless, an entrepreneur, someone unafraid to take risks is all part of the act too. I am beginning to see that a lot of it is just performance, and my body belies the act. While I may appear to be completely in charge, my body deals with the stress through intense perspiration, my armpits are like fountains whenever I am stressed, and lately it takes far less to stress me out.

So I am learning is that all of this has kept me from allowing the real me to see the light of day. The vulnerable, scared, insecure kid with bright orange hair and big ears, has been locked up all these years. I locked him up, because I was tired of the pain and the shame, and I opted instead to be the confident, dauntless Poul, that most people see today. Brene Brown talks about self compassion as a critical element of being wholehearted. I think that part of this journey will require me to look the awkward twelve year-old in the face and tell him that I like him, actually love him; although right now, I think I may still be embarrassed by him (obviously something that still needs work).

I have no idea where this is going to lead. While intellectually I understand what my therapist says when she tells me I am emotionally paralized, I have no idea what learning to use the rest of my emotional body looks like, let alone how to actuate it. The only time I cry now, is during movies, perhaps because it is dark, or it is safe, but it is the one place in my life where the emotions actually bubble to the surface. Sometimes so much so that even my son will notice it and ask "dad were you crying" with a quizacal look on his face. So I know that I have emotions, and occassionally they are allowed to surface. Truthfully the whole prospect scares me. I don't know what my life will look like without my armour. I don't know what my life will be like when I open the vault that keeps my emotions in check. What I do know is that I am tired of living the lie of "I don't care what people think" and look forward to retiring from my acting career, and settling into a place where I can just be myself. Until then, I will keep walking the dog and listening to thoughtful people. Turns out that my therapist lives in my neighbourhood and has a dog named Charlie too. Too bad I couldn’t just do sessions while walking the dog, it would be way cheaper, LOL.

Grief (A man unacquainted)

Grief is something I am not good at, never have been. Honestly, I don’t think I have allowed myself to experience grief very often; part of the bit of wearing my teflon suit of armour. It’s not that I haven’t had opportunity to experience grief - my cousin died tragically, numerous grandparents are now dead, my dad died… I have experienced plenty of death in my life. Yet in all of this, I remained relatively stoic, reigned in my emotions, was “tough” and '“strong” through it all.

I have been listening to Brené’s Rising Strong for a second time (needs time to percolate) so that it will sink in. At one point she refers to one of her favourite quotes from C.S. Lewis

To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly be broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries, avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable. To love is to be vulnerable.

That protective way of life, has largely been the path that I have chosen, as I instinctively knew that it would result in less heartbreak. I am not for a moment suggesting that this was the better path, but it was definitely the less painful one. With that said, I now am beginning to realize that while that path is less painful, it is also far less real, and far less meaningful.

I am slowly learning that leaning into the hurt, leaning into the emotion of heartbreak is a required element of grief. And while we typically associate grief with the death of loved ones, we can experience grief in all types of circumstances. The death of a job, a dream, a community, a friendship, or frankly anything in our lives where we have significant expectations that are unmet.

I am just starting to come around to this, and starting to recognize in myself the hurt and pain associated with unmet expectations (mostly what Brown calls “stealth expectations”) largely uncommunicated. I am beginning to wonder whether in fact, these stealth expectations are harder to reckon with than those that are laid out in the open. The ones held close, seem to be stronger, more important, more linked to emotion, and as a result, more easily dashed.

Grief is the emotion, the process, the path into that hurt and heartbreak which must be taken, if we are to emerge on the other side more whole hearted. I am just learning to rumble with this. I am having many conversations in my head as I walk and listen and think, trying to work this out.

I am finally seeing a psychologist again for the first time on Saturday. I have no idea whether we will connect, but I am hopeful. I hope that there will be a fit so that I have a way to navigate these rough waters. Rough water is not always a bad thing! As a beginner kayaker, I prefer the calm water of the North Saskatchewan River, but as I improve in my technical skills, I know that like all things, I will go looking for something with more kick, more excitement, more danger. I will be on the hunt for rougher waters.

Until then, I will have to do the work of navigating the rough waters of my emotion, my unspoken expectations, my bottled up grief, and I actually think that this ride will be better than the real water counterpart could ever be. We shall see.

A Collection of Poems (I wrote this during 1987 - Grade 12)

I stumbled upon a collection of poems that I penned during what must have been my grade twelve year of high school. I think that they are significant only in that they give me insight into what was rumbling around in my head thirty-one years ago. Oddly enough, some of the same thoughts are still rumbling around in there…. testimony to the reality that age doesn’t in itself produce wisdom. In fact, reading these words with older eyes makes me wonder where some of the wisdom has gone.

These poems were never published in 1987, so I feel it only appropriate that they get published now.

ANTICIPATION

Silence

deep, unnerving

the birds all gone

the leaves all fallen,

and blown away.

The fields all barren

now stored:

grain or hay.

Silence

deep unnerving

waiting only,

for the first feathered flake.

UNCERTAINTY

Often confiding,

daring almost to share,

Often restless,

almost accepting support,

Often doubting,

almost accepting advice,

Often saddened,

accepting cheer, then no!

Often fearful,

nearly accepting comfort,

seldom a friend,

But gladly taken.

THE FARMER

The sky darkens with heavy dark clouds,

rain transcending to the ground.

The stalks heavy laden, ben lazily down.

Hail ten miles over; shells that which

is already on the ground.

Hope flutters like an autumn leaf drifiting

in a breeze.

He sits watching and waiting for a

sign up above.

Time crawls slowly across the plains.

Patience prevails and a new day brings a new

light and new warmth, he looks up

smiling as if greeting an old friend.

Migration near completed; off on cold north

winds.

The lands now silent.

What once was, is now only half.

Struggling on he thinks only of next year.

FRIEND

Caring,

yearning,

listening,

comforting,

loving always in a special way,

seeking,

thinking,

then dropping from view,

resting,

watching,

until needed again.

YEARNING

The sky cold and windy grey,

and as I sat there that day I pondered,

the events of that day,

perhaps is was only in my sight,

yet within it still grows,

to you probably,

always untold,

yet someday, who knows.

The man who sits here may someday seem more bold,

until that day,

I sit here and ponder,

hoping still a sunny day may come,

gazing at hidden stars up yonder,

wanting only for this day,

to finally be done.

THE BEAST (man)

I chanced one day upon a fawn,

a clear could morning early,

just before dawn.

No wind blew.

The grass swayed to the sound of the silence,

each blade shedding a single drop of dew.

I pondered then on man’s great achievements in science,

though never able to create the simplest form of life.

Yet I marvelled at the beauty of nature

before my eyes.

The pines awaiting the breath of day,

across the meadow up on a hill I spotted the doe,

watching me; seemingly with perfect trust.

Through the trees the sun now rose,'

and as I walked away, a shot shattered the silence.

My heart filled with rage, my mind with shame,

and I pondered once more,

Man’s Great Achievements In Science.

GRADUATION

For most

eighteen years do pass,

slowly at first,

then almost too fast,

hurts, wants, goals, failings, wins,

losses, friends, shadows,

all are now past.

For most,

parties,

some seldom not,

but one remains!

Anticipation arises,

childhood dreams now dying,

friends crying,

come what may,

yet always take the time to ponder the past,

yesterday,

life goes on

but memories always last.

Brutally Honest (holding my breath with this one)

I wrote about expectations a few days ago. We all have experienced poor customer service because of unmet expectations! Deliver on my expectations and I am satisfied (but only), fail to meet my expectations and I am pissed (and will tell everyone how you failed over and over again) and if you happen to exceed my expectations, I will sing your praises until the cows come home (Canlis, Au Pied de Cochon). I may be wrong, but I think this is just human nature. These concepts around customer service is what we are trying to instil in our team at Transcend; exceed customer’s expectations and we win! I point to companies like Apple, Virgin Airlines and Mortons, as all of these organizations are famous for exceeding patron expectations and as a result garnering rabid customer loyalty. We all love to be treated well, to be known, to feel connected, to feel like we are included and belong, even with businesses we engage with.

Brené talks a lot about those who are wholehearted. Those subjects (research subjects) who have this innate sense that they are worthy of love and belonging. After reading Daring Greatly, I actually thought of myself as one of those people (confident of their innate worthiness of love and belonging). Oddly, after reading Rising Strong, I realized that I am actually not one of those people who inherently believe that they are worthy of love and belonging (I was lying to myself). I have another blog post in the cue about that, later.

Getting back to expectations. I realize that I am poor at communicating them. I rarely communicate them, maybe because I haven’t taken the time to figure out for myself what those expectations even are, and perhaps because articulating expectations is an act of vulnerability. With that said, I have started thinking about what my expectations are going forward when it comes to the notion of friendship. For those of you who (Still) count me as a friend, I apologize in advance.

I realize that I am disappointed largely because of my unspoken expectations in and around friendship. And yet I know that the people in my life cannot meet my expectations if I never communicate them. Even having to think about what my needs are in relationships is venturing into foreign territory for me. The process of communicating expectations requires courage (obviously something that I lack) to suffer discomfort and perhaps more risky, having my expressed needs rejected. So instead of taking that risk, I have in the past, mostly opted for the thing which is fast and easy, namely suppress, quell and ignore my needs and expectations, and then live frustrated in the reality that my relationships don’t measure up (circular and self defeating reasoning, I know!).

As I journey through all of this, I am beginning to realize that the lack of mutual connection in my life, is a source of pain. As I critically evaluate many of my friendships, I am finding that I have to admit that I am the often the instigator when it comes to facilitating connection. I enjoy hosting people, enjoy cooking for people, enjoy throwing a party (smaller lately). While all of this is true, what I am also starting to realize is that being the one to initiate these connections most of the time makes me wonder about the actual strength of my relationships. I get that that sounds shitty, TRUE, but I am trying to be more honest and vulnerable.

As I begin to attach words to long held feelings of unworthiness, I am asking myself why it is that I initiate text conversations at a ratio of 10:1? Probably because I crave connection? The same goes for hosting people for dinner. But at the risk of being considered petty, I am starting to realize that if I don’t initiate contact with many friends, it rarely seems to happen. Assuming that all of my friends are doing the best that they can, I have to assume that everyone is busy, everyone has a lot on their plate, and that life swallows up time and opportunity to connect. Yet, with that said, I also have to acknowledge that upon reflection, it doesn’t feel very good knowing that without my initiative (on the whole) my life perhaps would be largely devoid of meaningful connection. This realization is definitely an area of shame in my life, and one that I want a reckoning from.

So if I have to articulate my needs and expectations in and around friendship, I have to say that I have a need for greater mutuality when it comes to connection. How can friends be vulnerable with each other if there isn’t an opportunity to connect and build relationships of trust? If we are all too busy to connect, the chance of meaningful conversation built upon mutual vulnerability will likely never exist. Perhaps this is the reality of the world we now live in? And while the mad scramble of life seemingly takes no prisoners; I don’t have to like this reality that I find myself part of.

I realize that what I am writing is probably going to be perceived as being shitty. I realize that this may possibly result in less dinner invitations being accepted. But in truth, this is not my intention. My intention with this post (albeit raw) is to be brutally honest, and truly vulnerable about how I feel. As someone deeply committed to the notion of community, one of the things I long for is authentic connection. I also realize that many people in my life aren’t in the same place I am, aren’t in the same stage in life or career. I am aware that I am afforded a rarefied luxury of flexibility and freedom in my day-to-day life, and I think that this freedom perhaps, is in part to blame, because I have time to connect when most everyone else in my life is busy with work and family.

Me writing this, doesn't diminish my affection for my friends, on the contrary. Me writing this doesn’t negate my desire to host dinners, fires, or get-togethers. But having said all of that, what it does articulate is a deep desire to know that I am worthy of love and belonging and that my friendships aren’t simply a byproduct of my own creation, a product of my constant persistence (a polite but persistent nagging) and people simply giving way. Sounds a bit like junior high, I know, but this is where I am at; forty-nine years in the making.

Badassery (redefined)

For almost all of my life, I have respected the idea of a badass. Someone who lives on their own terms, lives without fear, perhaps even lives dangerously. Maybe it is a byproduct of growing up on a farm (of sorts), or at least growing up in the country, where we just did things without giving much thought to the consequences. Jumping motorbikes and snowmobiles over fences, pushing the limits with equipment, basically thumbing our noses at danger. Truth be told, I am still a bit too much like that (everyone at Transcend Coffee thinks of me as a cowboy, doing things that the average person wouldn’t even consider). I am not trying to be reckless, but I think it is a bit hard wired into me, from my time growing up - that you just get er’ done, safety be damned.

So working through Brené Brown’s definition of a badass (or badassery) has been a bit of an adjustment, and upon reflection, her notion of being a badass is growing on me. I like that she flips the notion on its head, and rather than celebrating the reckless, cowboy, safety be damned approach to life, that I grew up admiring, she celebrates the one who has the courage to be vulnerable. She writes

To me the real badass is the person who says, “Our family is really hurting. We could use your support.” And the man who tells his son, “It’s okay to be sad. We all get sad. We just need to talk about it.” And the woman you says, “Our team dropped the ball. We need to stop blaming each other and have some tough conversations about what happened so we can fix it and move forward.”

I have found the response to this blog interesting. I never expected many people to read it, and frankly, I am surprised that as many people have taken time out of their busy lives to ingest it as have done. But even more surprising than the analytics, is the conversations I have been having here and there with people who want to encourage me with the project.

I have had a couple of very encouraging conversations in the last couple of days, not because of them celebrating this blog, but far more importantly, because we had honest, raw, emotion filled talks about the shit in our lives. The conversations were about suffering, emotions, regret, failure, anger, resentment, and disappointment. And while that might not sound like fodder for great conversation, I left both instances feeling refreshed, uplifted, because for the first time in a long time, I was having meaningful interaction with friends which transcended the day-to-day, the mundane, the weather.

This little quirky project of mine, a journey into living wholeheartedly, and then writing about it, has opened unexpected doors into not just my life, but the raw lives of others, and is enabling human connection, the thing I have been longing for.

I still have no idea what the hell I am doing, or how I will get to where I need to ultimately end up. I still need to find a good therapist (if you know of one, please pass there name along). I still need to ingest more learning (2nd time through Rising Strong on my walks with Charlie). I need to figure out how to lean in more and practice it. I need to quit reacting and making assumptions concerning unpleasant circumstances and start living in the knowledge that people are doing the best that they can. I need to start being more curious about my own reactions and emotions, hell I need to figure out how to name my emotions! You would think that someone who can taste and identify flavours like black currant and jasmine in coffee and wine would be better at identifying the physiological and psychological responses that my body has; so much work to do. But in the midst of it all I am moving forward, growing, and more importantly seeing the fruit of this journey into being more vulnerable (Julie, I think you might be proud of me?).

So, while I still give props to the somewhat reckless actions of my youth, and acknowledge the things in my life that exist because of misguided bravery, I am starting to grasp (albeit slowly) the true bravery required to live wholeheartedly, to live in the midst of courageous and difficult conversations. Now I just have to figure out if I can still be a cowboy and a badass at the same time? LOL.

Generosity and Expectations

We have been talking a lot at Transcend about expectations and customer service. Good customer service is very difficult to find in the market place, and I think that the biggest problem with this deficit is most of us have unmet expectations which leave us feeling cold. We have been talking about exceeding people’s expectations as a way to win at customer service, but that requires that you actually know what the expectations of your customers are, or alternatively help to set those expectations.

I think the same is true in life. I think that many of us live our lives without any real thought as to what our expectations are in life, and as a result, often find ourselves disappointed and frustrated.

I know that I fall into this pattern of living. It is easy to drift into the daily grind of getting up, doing work, catching a bit of TV, maybe if we are lucky a little exercise and then bed. The cycle continues day after day, until another month, year, perhaps a decade has passed, and we look back and wonder where the time has gone, and why we feel so disconnected.

I have never been good at setting goals. I tried once to outline a five year plan and it was a complete waste of time. I feel constrained by plans, goals, metrics. But I also know that I often find myself disappointed in life and I think that is because I have very rarely taken the time to understand and more importantly communicate what my expectations are to myself and those around me. I am not talking about being demanding, or pushy, but rather being clear about what is important to me, so that others know, and can assess whether they are up for being part of the journey, and can decide whether or not they can actually meet my expectations.

I know that I have always longed for meaningful community. I wrote a small blog post a while ago on this subject. Truthfully, I have never had that longing met. I talk about community, think about it, but I don’t think I have ever stopped to identify for myself what my expectations are in and around community. As a result, I am often disappointed and frustrated with any attempt to build or nurture community. True vulnerable mutual friendship is a rare thing in my life, and I am guessing in most people’s lives. We all are busy, we have more to do than time to do it, work and family consume most of our time leaving most of us sleep deprived and exhausted. When we do find time to get together with friends, it can often feel hollow and unsatisfying. I am beginning to wonder whether this is because we (I) have failed to define for ourselves and communicate our expectations, and as a result, have them left unmet.

The problem with communicating expectations is that it is scary, at least on a personal level. Being vulnerable and communicating our needs to others opens us up to rejection which in turn causes pain. So instead, I know that I mostly choose to live in a place of frustration, due to unspoken and unmet expectations. I would say this is true in my life, even with those closest to me. I have never sat down with my friends and articulated what I would like to see in terms of how our friendship might work. I have never had one friend sit me down and tell me what they expect of me either. So I am guessing that like me, they have experienced frustration and disappointment as well (some of which I am likely the author of).

I have always held generosity as a personal core value. I like to think of myself as a generous person. While I think that I can say that this is mostly true (I am not always generous) I can honestly say that I rarely establish boundaries around that generosity. The result of this is often disappointment and unmet expectations; feelings of being taken advantage of, always having to be the one who initiates….

Brené Brown talks about “living big” and poses this question: what boundaries do I need to put in place so I can work from a place of integrity and extend the most generous interpretations of the intentions, words, and actions of others?

She goes on to define integrity as the act of choosing courage over comfort; choosing what is right over what is fun, fast, or easy; and choosing to practice our values rather than simply professing them.

I know that the thought of communicating clear expectations is a daunting prospect. Even as I write this, my thoughts rush to the assumption that my heartfelt needs in friendship are likely unreasonable (if they weren’t why do they seem so unattainable). This thought pattern may be totally inaccurate, but up until now, I have rarely (perhaps never) had the courage to articulate my expectations even to those people closest to me. So rather than exercising courage, I have chosen the easy way out, but the easy way leads to frustration.

Brené suggests that we take a piece of paper, one inch by one inch and write down the name of everyone in our life that has earned the right to hear our deepest thoughts and feelings. She says if there are more names than can fit on that tiny piece of paper, we need to edit that list because we aren’t being honest with ourselves. My initial thought when she said this was wow, that is harsh. But is it? It seems ridiculous that I am approaching a half century on this planet, and for all of it, I find myself in (what must be very common) a place of solitude because of my own inability to be vulnerable with others. Years of wearing armour, upgrading that armour, to ensure that nothing gets through the cracks has led me here. And yet when I am honest with myself, I don’t want to be where I find myself, and worse, I don’t have a map to show me how to navigate to where I actually want to be….

More rumbling required.