Convalescing

For the last two days I have been convalescing; that is, while confined to my bed I am completing crossword and Sudoku puzzles that I wouldn’t ordinarily have had the time for. On Monday morning I experienced those dreaded symptoms — the enormous weight on my chest and inability to breathe — that frequently get dramatized on TV and strike a particular fear into men. Yes, I thought I was having a heart-attack. It all began while I was asleep, dreaming that I had a pipe in my throat; I was restless and tossed and turned a number of times to try and dislodge it, but to no avail. I then got up and stumbled to the bathroom. On my return, my chest caved-in and upon reaching the bed I fell into a fetal position. Any attempt to move resulted in more pain, so I stayed still. After summoning the strength for a few pathetic screams I got my wife’s attention. She then phoned 8–1–1, the number for HealthLink BC (an excellent medical consulting service) and I whispered answers to a nurse in between convulsions. She advised me that I may be experiencing cardiac arrest and that I should phone 9–1–1. My wife did so and I spent an eternity, in reality a few minutes, wishing for the ambulance to arrive so I could gain some relief.

The firefighters, as per their union agreement, arrived first and were followed shortly by the ALS (advanced life support). They asked me a lot of questions and put a number of sensors on me. The trainee made a first attempt, but no reading appeared on the ECG screen, so the supervisor with sub-zero hands gave it a shot. Yes, if I was worrying about how cold his hands were, I probably wasn’t having a heart attack. This turned out to be the case, but they weren’t taking any chances. A second ambulance crew got me on the stretcher and into an ambulance. After some oxygen I began to feel marginally better but still had a heavy weight on my chest, so another trainee attempted to insert an IV. He was unsuccessful and so was his supervisor, it even took the emergency room nurse a few times (apparently I have numerous valves in my veins, which prevent the reverse flow of my blood).

As you can tell I ran across quite a few trainees, however, this was something I began to appreciate: the medical student, who was training to be a doctor, was very sensitive and thorough; and the blood technician, though his fingers were trembling, gained some valuable experience. Apart from the glee in the paramedics’ eyes at the number of veins in my arm, I was glad that so many were training to enter this essential field. The day passed with many pokes and prods, but in the end the excellent doctor could only tell me what it was not. I had not suffered a heart attack, a blood clot, disease, or physical trauma, such as a broken bone or collapsed lung; the most likely candidates were a muscle spasm or pinched nerve. In the end, I felt a little ridiculous for coming in, but the pain still in my chest made me think otherwise.

The paramedics were nice enough to check on me as they came and went through the day. One told me that no matter what had happened I was correct to call the ambulance given my level of distress; that made me feel much better. Another, later on, had described the harsh conditions of their job and lower pay compared to firefighters and the police. At first I enquired whether this was a result of danger pay, but was assured that paramedics face equal dangers on the job. It turns out that paramedics are considering striking to get pay equity and it makes sense they get it due to the danger of riding in the back of the ambulance, hauling the portly, and proximity to deadly diseases.

The experience was traumatic for my children as well: the picture above is Evelyn’s result of natural art therapy. (I refer to it as natural because no counsellor induced her to draw it and she correctly drew my feet hanging over the edge of the stretcher.) The next morning she came into my bed and watched over me while I slept. My son chose not to share my experience with his buddies, but came to visit me in the hospital. In the end I am left with the adhesive of countless sensors and Band-Aids, relief, and a deep hope that I never experience the real thing. Although if I ever do, I know my family and the medical system will be there for me.

Sidney Island

For me and two friends, Labour Day weekend marks more than the end of summer, our annual trip to Sidney Island. We take the kids that are out of diapers and camp for a couple of nights, a dads and kids weekend. The kids spend most of their time at the beach and we kick back. We catch-up and, like most of the camps, treks, and excavations I've been on, hum a theme song (a song which pervades the social consciousness of a group and seems to posses its own agency in doing so). This year, Take it on the Run by REO Speedwagon was on our lips, which isn't that bad a choice if you consider that parents frequently sing kids songs; at times I find myself singing the clumsy adaption of the 12 Days of Christmas for the LeapPad and some of the Barney's Favorites that my daughter repeatedly plays. Nevertheless, we are products of the Eighties, so it's no surprise Hey Rosetta, Wintersleep, and Tanya Tagaq songs don't become theme songs, despite their worthiness. Our '80s perspective, however, offers us much expertise in judging least deserving hits; this year The Boys in the Bright White Sports Car edged out TNT in the Simplest Lyrics category. Since we are upfront about our association with the Eighties, it is surprising that some radio stations, such as Jack, aren't. The Atlantic Monthly has this to say about the Eighties, "Like relentless zombies in a horror film, '80s nostalgia acts keep trudging along, undaunted." What is surprising is that my wife can still run into a teenager who yells, "Judas Priest rules" two inches from her face. I guess we'll have to endure for another generation or so.



Sidney Island's an idyllic setting for camping. Every time I'm there, I often pause in wonder at the surrounding vista: the stars also shine brighter here, so much so that it's like getting a new prescription. The island boasts a herd of fallow deer, which reminds me of the antelope that roam in the same dry, knee-high grass of the Serengeti. This year Parks Canada has installed some interpretive signs about the wildlife and history of the island; however, they've omitted the bomb shelter. It is a long rectangular structure with a vaulted ceiling and sturdy walls; two benches line the long walls and would have seated 20 or so. The grass roof and location amidst the trees would have kept it well camouflaged, but it is difficult to ascertain why it was built in the first place, given the low likelihood of an attack. Perhaps, the owner was caught up in the same hysteria that resulted in the Japanese internment camps. Nevertheless, it's well worth the visit; just wander about 500 metres SSE of the barracks to just inside the tree-line (east of the dead trees).

Pain's devouring and the earth's finest

Since April illness has struck my family; I can almost imagine Apollo's arrows flying overhead. I was the first victim with a back injury, then as I began to get better, my wife's chronic back condition flared up. She continues to be riddled with pain and in the meantime her mother has been diagnosed with breast cancer and her grandmother has passed away. There is little one can do in these times but adapt. I now do most of the household duties and have had a difficult time completing my other work. The upside is I've gotten to spend more time with my family and I've been exploring new tastes since I now do all the shopping.

I have invested heavily in stimulants to combat my tiredness. One of my favourites is chocolate and I've tried many types: Chocolate Santander produces high quality single-origin bars; I have not been disappointed with any of their bars. The website has a graphic for each bar, which breaks down the flavours of each bar (this one's from the 70 percent cacao):


For an extra kick I turn to the 70% with Coffee Bits, although it does have a bitter after-taste. The 53%, my favorite, has a smooth caramel flavour and rich creamy texture.

OrganicFair is produced much closer to home in Cobble Hill. They have a much wider array of offerings, yet despite compelling combinations, some varieties remain inferior to other products. For instance, Chiapas with cinnamon, cardamom, and chipotle chile does not compare with Cocoa Camino's Chili & Spice. While Camino achieves a balance of flavours with one flavour complementing the next, the bitter chocolate and chile flavours in OrganicFair's offering overpowers the cinnamon and cardamom so much they are barely perceptible. Similar failings inhibit the Provence bar with lavender, rosemary, and sweet orange: these flavours are barely discernible. Although I admire their innovative flavour pairings, it does little good when the flavours do not balance each other. Fortunately, this is not the case with all their products. They achieve perfection with the Westcoaster, toasted hazelnuts and wild blueberries; here the rich smooth chocolate asserts its dominance, then the blueberries, and last the hazelnuts. A pleasant aftertaste lingers on the palate, which compels one toward further measured consumption. In Sakura, the only other bar in the Nuts and Berries category, bitter chocolate draws out the tangy crispness of candied ginger and rich sweetness of sundried cherries.

Unlike the above companies which only use organic and fairly traded ingredients, NewTree has not embraced this level of corporate responsibility. Despite this lack of foresight, they do produce a polished and delicious product, which catchy names, such as Crave, Vigor, and Blush, and an endorsement by Oprah don't belie. The blackcurrents in Renew burst on to a backdrop of rich buttery cocoa and the hint of lemon in Forgiveness cleanses the palate with each bite. Refresh is the only dark chocolate bar that disappoints: the mint just doesn't mix well with the choice of chocolate. The milk chocolate bars also have vibrant flavours, but these bars are sweet, condensed milk sweet. Although the apricot in Crave and cinnamon in Cocoon complement the sweetness, I have to be in the right mood to enjoy them.

Zazubean's flashy names like Flirt and Lunatic and promising flavour combinations attract, but don't deliver. When I tried Flirt, acai and cherries, I expected an experience comparable to the Westcoaster; however the tart, fresh berries were undermined by bland flat chocolate. The cherries were hardly noticeable. Although I would like to see Zazubean prosper given their corporate responsibility and use of high quality products, I am somewhat hesitant to try further varieties.

Whenever I'm in the chocolate aisle and unsure of what to pick, I turn to my longstanding favourites Terra Nostra and Bjornsted. Terra Nostra's Raisins and Pecans bar brings back the flavour of the Cadbury Fruit and Nut bar which I enjoyed as a kid, but no longer enjoy (I swear the chocolate was better and there were much more raisins and nuts in each bar). Their Double Dark Truffle has a rich soft centre nestled in a crisp shell. For a plain dark chocolate bar it's hard to top Bjornsted's Dark Chocolate bar; sweet bitterness is not a contradiction.

For ice cream sundays, chocolate milk or iced-coffees look no further than Wilderness Family Naturals' Raw Chocolate Syrup; with only two ingredients, organic agave nectar and cacao powder, the health benefits match the deep flavour and rich texture. A delectable iced-coffee can be made by mixing 1 cup of ice, a handful of blueberries, 2 shots of expresso, a tablespoon of Raw Chocolate Syrup and a cup of vanilla ice cream in a blender.

Vitriolic embers and definitely maybe

In the same way that Snowman's old addictions "burst into full and luxuriant bloom," my prejudices lie under the desert sands (Atwood. Oryx and Crake, 333). When and what will ignite my embers varies, but a good rant often burns them out. A rant can't be a sanitized tract on bullshit (people say "bullshit" when they're mad or hurt), but must get to the point like a Difranco tune. Call it as it is. Be a race car driver. Leave your suburban sloppiness. Learn to corner, gear down, and accelerate smoothly:



Frustration is "why don't you value what I do?" or "why don't you hear me?". Don't you know how much more efficient and safer the traffic flow would be if you took driving seriously? It's not something you do while talking on the phone, eating a burger, reading a paper, etc ... . Well, I feel better. But I've been there, kids screaming, phone ringing, and late; mistakes happen. Oh ... yeah: the song changes from Untouchable Face to You Had Time. A chill flows through my veins taming the conflagration. Dissonance changes to resonance, the imperative to the subjunctive. Now, the hunks of peat sizzle softly, warming my bones. Beauty's got me.

Reflections of an old(er) man

My absence from the blogosphere is easy to account for: on Tuesday I aged a few decades when my back went out. The list of "no longer ables" is a mile long and even as I write now I'm lying flat, regretting the purchase of my heavy laptop, which presses hard against my mid-riff. Like the aged, I have had much time to reflect and read. I read The Children of Hurin, The Guardian Weekend, some academic articles, and made some good progress through Oryx and Crake, a wonderfully written social commentary; however, it's the time for reflection I've really treasured. My nine year-old son took up the slack and unloaded the truck full of compost, which had mocked my condition in its untouched state in the driveway, carefully spreading it around the plants in the garden. I've often been the blessed recipient of his outside-of-school work ethic, such as a divine breakfast-in-bed served upon a fully furnished platter after a lie-in. My laid-out state caused my four year-old daughter much consternation and she would frequently check on me and pat my arm or kiss my cheek; then there's the selfless labour of my wife, all the meals, work and cleaning.

Receiving blessing amidst this pain got me to thinking about my interactions with others. My sub-conscious must have been doing the same because before I fell asleep the other night I had a vision of a tumbleweed in constant (and random) motion bumping into a wide circle of stationary objects. In my lucid state I took the tumbleweed to be me and the pillars, those I interacted with. The picture seemed to benefit me solely, so a top, more specifically a hard, pointed, and long-spinning Bey-Blade (I can't believe they once cost $15) might be more appropriate: the blades could actually take out chunks to represent what I took from others, the borrowings from their soul. Of course, all this imagery is rooted in my self-focused condition, but it got me to thinking nonetheless. In the same way that a whirling dervish can signify divine communication, so can water molecules represent human interaction: molecules mixing amidst eddies appear like humans moving through experiences. To get a sense of what I mean watch this:



Each person dancing and sharing yet also alone, swimming yet pushed by the currents. Are we propelled through life by the force emitted by the movement from withdrawing to socializing, taking to serving? Or some other force? Who knows? But at this time I especially enjoy the weightless feeling of being around family and good friends. Keep swimming.

Identity and Culture (Finding myself through it)

Identity has always come hard for me. My childhood was a collection of moves: born in Canada, moved to California, then Indonesia, then back to California, then Saudi Arabia, then Italy, then Canada. A circuitous route, for sure. What made it more disparate were the visits every six months outside of these locales. So, after a spring in Saudi, I'd go for the summer to Scotland. Then there were the moves within these countries: from the busy streets of Riyadh to an isolated compound with rich fields for the seeds of an over-developed imagination. Marshall Sella, speaking of Viggo Mortensen put it this way, "... it has made him a little foreign everywhere, and everywhere at home" (GQ September 2007, 273). When I read this quote, it struck me, as I've always felt at home everywhere, but upon reflection often felt like an outsider.

In the popular media of recent months I've noticed some similar experiences. Sandra Oh states, "No matter how much you fit in, you're the outsider, and you only realize much later how deeply the assimilation affects you. You always feel like you miss out just a little bit. You are just not the same" (Onstad, K. "Oh la la," Chatelaine November 2007, 120). Wyclef Jean states, "I feel that I am part of the American Dream but I feel that for you to have the American Dream you need to have that immigrant background, meaning that at the end of the day we all are immigrants so we should still be treated with respect" (The Hour, October 30, 2007). Perhaps, the most extreme case of cultural dislocation is that of the American soldier in Iraq, who in the course of 48 hours moves from the front-lines to the couch at home; he then returns after a two week visit, a trip that includes moving through various paradigms, e.g., camaraderie vs. family integration, friend/foe vs. loved ones, alertness vs. relaxation, and duty vs. expectation.

My identity has been shaped by various factors over the years and has taken the form of many personal narratives, e.g., the traveler, the student, the independent. However, the obscure nature of Canadian identity has hampered my journey, i.e., establishing what is uniquely Canadian is a difficult task. Thus, my journey has included establishing what being a Canadian is. I have done so by learning the history, listening to its great musicians, reading its literature, and talking with many of its citizens. Nevertheless one can only do so much, but I have noticed a few things. First, many are looking for definition. It is a frequent topic that has spurned many debates and Molson TV commercials. Second, regional variation has muddled the issue. I once entertained one way of commenting on this diversity, as well as obtaining my 15 minutes of fame, but the threat of jail-time dissuaded me: during an election in rural B.C., I would post election signs for a fake candidate that was running for the Parti Québécois. The reactions would not have been pretty.

In the last ten years on the west coast (I can only comment from this perspective, though I live vicariously in the east coast through the music of Stan Rogers), native art has become a significant expression of our culture. It has dominated all new public buildings and I can't complain, e.g., Bill Reid's Jade Canoe is amazing. Nevertheless, I wonder what it is replacing. What would be the Olympic symbol if this weren't the trend? A lumberjack, a miner? Yes, pre-90's the west coast was defined by its dependence on natural resources. For some reason the Pacific Rim connection never took a firm hold on the coast despite a number of sister cities and Japanese immersion programs. Then came the wave of First Nation's art. At first I found this choice ironic, since there have been so very few treaties negotiated (Tsawwassen this year was only the second). Then, I realized that this art grounded us. It is an art that transcends the lumberjacks and real estate developers from Hong Kong; furthermore, by transcending the modern, it complements, rather than clashes with, the rich cultural diversity of the west coast. Its modern interpretation provides the sophistication needed for cultural cache in larger cities. Lastly, the art was authentic: it was part of a flourishing prompted by the return of many First Nations to their roots.

Among First Nations is one place that I have always belonged in Canada, though my white skin obviously betrays me as an outsider. Learning the history of the land has grounded me and provided meaning for me. Certain sites and landscapes take on new meaning for me as I learn the place name and its meaning in the original language. This experience has also made me more Canadian: I can't tell you the number of times I passed by the Quw'utsun' Cultural Centre, but this summer I finally visited it and was really impressed. The dancers, carvers and interpretive guides provided a rich experience among amazing displays and relics that was topped off by an amazing meal at the Riverwalk Cafe (the Bistro at Cherry Point also owned by the Cowichan Tribes is very good also).

Another source of richness in my Canadian education has been the CBC, especially radio: Peter Gzowski put me in touch with the personal, quirky and interesting; Michael Enwright with the sophisticated; Stuart McLean with the funny, but more so with a rich appreciation through his poetic descriptions of Canada; and Sheila Rogers with diverse, but everyday Canadians and issues. Then there's As It Happens that uniquely Canadian show and thanks to them I listen to Alan Maitland read The Shepherd every Christmas.

In the end the diverse nature of Canada does not make it indefinable, rather it's part and parcel to the process. Culture, though diverse, does provide the social norms by which Canadians can define themselves.

Connecting with nature

I have often observed with wonder the way that relatives and friends who many would consider to be "country-bumpkins" circulate seamlessly among the ranks of high-society guests, such as ambassadors and executives. They do so effortlessly neither changing their relatively unsophisticated manner nor their unrefined speech. What holds their audience are the embellished accounts of hunting, fishing and farming. Their rapt audience is usually either an urban/modern who distantly admires those upon whom their society has been built or a person born and raised in the woods, but since detached. The refrain if uttered would be "oh the good old days!" I like many city-folk straddle this divide: I love working outside in the wild, but am compelled by conditioning and a number of factors to remain near the jobs and institutions. Every now and then I experience a bond with fellow nature-lovers, e.g. while splitting fire-wood this weekend a neighbour remarked, speaking to the legitimacy of my endevour, "Now there is a man at work". I frequently feel like giving it all up and returning to the hills, but am always discouraged by the nagging feeling that I may not really belong there either for any period of time. So for now I'll awkwardly observe the country-folk in action at various parties and visit them as often as I can.

Ponderings - Why I don't have to be right (always)

In the same way that the flood may have been a local event that the residents of the Levant thought encompassed the earth, so may a person's religious views, which he thinks of as applying to everyone, be local (specific to a faith community rather than universal). Instead of justifying them, claiming they are the Truth, is it not better to hold onto them because they are your own or because they make up who you are? With this approach there is no need to over-ride others. Could they really be Global? Is Krishna Das' belief, revelation, and worship any less sincere, honouring or right than mine? I too see a wall around my heart that separates me from true love. Am I speaking a dialect of a common tongue, a tongue much like music where different styles and learning blend into the beautiful (only with mastery though can a tabla player jam with a banjo player)? How much of the one, true way is caused by power struggles? Although my entire being rejects Dawkins et al.'s notion we would be better off without religion, I agree with his assertion when the journey of belief becomes one hollow institution at war with the other. Why do questions of authenticity (to use a catch-phrase) evoke such a harsh response? Because on one level a piece of a person's identity is assaulted. That is why it can often hurt. Everyone's identity is valid though, so be specific about religious practise. Respect others and peace may really happen on earth and it will be seen if God can really live among men.

After having traversed the wide expanse bordered by fundamentalism and liberalism at various times I wonder at my faith journey, all the turns I have taken. I too wish to break down the wall one stone at a time, a wall certain conventions have encouraged me to build in the name of righteousness. Nevertheless, I can hardly breathe. How can something that is so natural be so stifled? Some of the thoughts that I journaled years ago reflect this:

The Trinity can be compared to elements in the universe: space (omnipresent Father), matter (Son), and time (unseen Spirit). The three dimensionality of space also reflects this. A single dimension rendering reveals a scant part of the picture, the second shows everything, but in a flat manner and the third combines to provide an experience.

I now venture to extract the pure essence of being and live true to myself and my god with as few constructs as possible (some framework for interpretation is always necessary). There are, however, no easy answers, no hastily spoken quips to consider the depth of faith.

Dialogue #2

"Listen to me, Dad! I am the police!"

"That is fine Honey, but the police is answerable to the government."

"Dad, I am the government!"

Finding a voice

For the last while I have been trying to return to blogging and have been working on many topics, but have always felt restrained by the events of the last year. Without going into detail about all the things that have happened I have finally begun to learn that approval must come from within first. Circumstances can suck, more importantly people can really suck: it really amazes me how vulnerable my being is to some people under certain conditions. People who don't give others the benefit of the doubt suck. Nevertheless for every person who at a moment in time choose destruction there is another who breathes life. Really it is through vulnerability that the good can shine through. Today I had the pleasure of meeting Margot Van Sluytman who shared her story at coffee at the Centre. Her journey to find her voice and her ability to express it so passionately spoke to me (and others) on the deepest level. Victimology really is a trap, an imposition on yourself. There is no question that it defined(s) you. Circumstances and blunt, pessimistic, blind or similar type of persons should in no way make you lose your voice. There is such a deep well to drink from in life, so many good souls. There is no question that community is an ecology; other people will impact you. Nevertheless, only a weed thrives on poor soil. The noble, good and beautiful not only often go deep, but they also respond, practically depend upon, nurture. This ethereal connection to the living rather than surviving transcends corporeal form: it embeds itself in the expressions of people who in moments of time breathe the deep breath of life: the story, song or poem that makes you cry. The real mystery is how happenstance governs this realm. How does it all come together?
Obviously much of life is toil. There's little escape from that: even the most privileged make their own toil. One essential part of transcendence must be communing with others, on one level or another. The discordant joy of those in the impoverished regions of the globe has always struck me. How can they smile. More importantly, why do if feel a deep connection with these people? How do they access my heart so readily? How do they change lives? How can they so readily look you in the eye without demanding anything or revealing shame? How do they disarm one so well protected?
One answer is not by having a larger house, iPod or car because they don't. I love gadgets, convenience and comfort so I will never really give them up. It is not the items themselves, rather the false expectations these items bring. Sure they bring happiness, pride and wonder. What they are, however, is a symptom (and vehicle) of a culture of isolation and disconnection. As I stand waiting for the bus or riding my bike on many a morning the smell of pollution sickens me. Yet, as I am passed by so many cars I wonder if the drivers know. I cannot believe how sick I feel after cycling on a rural road when a car that has just been started goes by me. Now I know there are naysayers on global warming and the responsibility of humans, but get out of the car and breathe. That red glow on the horizon really is pollution!
What are we plugged into? Community? Anything that centres us? Now life is often presented as a battle from which me must unplug ourselves to once more enter the fray. Live 1 week (a three week vacation yields one week without toning down or ramping up) out of 52? Yet, many I have met swim with the current. The nourishers, what is it about them? Those with a community, those who fit in their own skin, you know them. Moreover, what about children and the child-like natures of those who suffer most. What really nourishes the soul?
Other humans: I am sure that every individual (even those I hate) has shown at least one act of kindness, which nourishes others.
Self: navel gazing aside, a deep realization of the wonder you are. Check out these guys: one suffering and one a comic.
Nature: as a model, but more of where we belong.
The mysterious wonder that governs (or created) serendipity: enough said.
Breathe deep!

Ancient Wisdom

This term I have been translating quite a bit of Latin. Through this process, there are times when I feel like I am being injected with regular doses of poison (I have no idea what disease the chemo is for, maybe notenoughlatinus) and times when I am totally undone by the poetry's beauty. At other times, I am struck by how appropriate the subject matter is for today. I could easily satirize our nation in the same way as Horace (1.1.61-64):

At bona pars hominum, decepta cupidine falso,
'Nil satis est,' inquit, 'quia tanti quantum habeas sis.'
Quid facias illi? Iubeas miserum esse, libenter
quatenus is facit;

But the good part of mankind, deceived by false desire,
'Nothing is enough,' they would say, 'because you are of such worth as you have'
What do you do for such a man? You order him to be wretched, since
he does it willingly.

Breaking Down

The snow smoothed the landscape and muffled sound. All was made new and the ugly covered; the annoying noise of traffic quelled. Peace at last; people even walked. Our power diminished : If Hydro goes, fate rests in ability; Survival over convenience. I am glad it snows once in a while in Victoria.

I broke down and downloaded some songs from itunes (what holds me back is the low quality/dollar ratio). One was Pacing the Cage, which I think as Cockburn's version of "Blowing in the Wind". Cockburn's poetry is amazing:

Sunset is an angel weeping
Holding out a bloody sword
No matter how I squint I cannot
Make out what it's pointing toward

I've proven who I am so many times
The magnetic strip's worn thin
And each time I was someone else
And everyone was taken in

I never knew what you all wanted
So I gave you everything
All that I could pillage
All the spells that I could sing

Good Bye John

Today, I had the pleasure of attending the funeral for John Dougan (the pleasure was in knowing this great man and hearing about his impact on so many, not in having to say good bye). Well, why was he so great? You can only answer this question by having known him, but here are a few things. I first met him when we moved to Victoria, he and his wife Rie were our new neighbours, immediately our family took a shine to this man and his wife. Over the years he has been more than a grand parent to me. He was the second person (after my mom) Tessa and I told the news of our engagement to, while he was on one of his usual walks in the neighbourhood. My mom is right, the neighbourhood will not be the same without him; he knew everyone and was always up to date with what they were doing. He delighted in giving toonies to my children as if they were his own grand-kids. To me, the glint in his eye and gentlemanly manner stand out. Over the years my mother has oft said, "always the diplomat, John Dougan". He was always so gracious and loved a good joke; he would always laugh while telling the punch-line. I still break out in laughter when I recall some of the occasions with him. We, humans, truly are meant to be together, given the impact we can have upon one another. It is amazing how the stories of so many have "John" in it and he is inextricably woven through the last twenty-two years of mine. Thank you John, for being you. Just like a ray of sunshine you were always seen to be brightest in the gloom. Good bye.

Struggling

Is life an endless cycle of hate? Wars, battles, attacks and daggers in the back? Apparently so, but the cycle can be broken and the stream reversed. What? There must be a catch. There is! The effort that a person makes will not be readily apparent for a long time, much like when one first lifts a heavy piece of furniture the pain is excruciating until raised from a squat the muscles have finished contracting. Then a sense of lightness overcomes the lifter. How can one feel lighter? As Gene Edwards says in A Tale of Three Kings, "One, never learn anything about the fashionable, easily-mastered art of spear-throwing. Two, stay out of the company of all spear throwers. And three, keep your mouth tightly closed". Any other catches? Yeah, one more, a person will go through almost more pain by doing the above three things than if he fought back. What about assertiveness? Be a doormat? Remember the goal! To rise beyond conflict. Ghandi lay like a doormat, but was never used as one. Are people powerless, then? No! A person has incredible power, but it must be harnessed. What? The same hate can be brought out of anyone. In classical speak, anyone can be Raskolnikov; in modern speak everyone must win against their own temptation of the dark-side or the ring. Pass the test and peace will come. Aung San Suu Kyi passes all the tests with flying colours. Look at the size of her enemy and the power they have over her, yet she will win one day since she wins one day at a time. This sounds like passive crap? The battle is in a person, that is why questions like this are asked angrily. Why be defensive, if it's crap? Well then what about Israel? Israel owes its heritage to a pacifist, David. David overcame his own soul first, became king legitimately and then ruled and established the kingdom. Yes, he made mistakes, but he wasn't mad like Saul. And yes he could have deposed of Saul since Saul had served his purpose. What about fame and power? None is more famous (especially over time) than Jesus, Ghandi, Mother Theressa, Aung San Suu Kyi and many others. Power then? Whose kingdoms have influenced the most outside their lives, i.e. lasting power? Keep up the struggle and acknowledge first temptation, its source and then overcome it for power is not taking but overcoming.

Control

The subject of control enters my mind often. Control is an illusion that deceives many, for at certain times a person can truly feel in control and actually be in control to a limited extent. Times in life exist where everyone does another's bidding and everything goes that person's way, a person has control. Or does he? Can that one make things go his way or is it the hand that he is dealt. In no way am I minimizing the need for gracious behaviour and seizing the things that are in a person's reach (and we can extend the reach somewhat), but in the end humans are limited. There is a ceiling.

In addition to the temporal nature of control, control, which is the ultimate exertion of power, often has many inconsistencies. In the Constant Gardiner a central character states "I was the control freak who couldn't control himself". He couldn't control his lust nor could he figure out what caused it or where it came from. He was disjointed.

Rather than control, I favour the word influence. Complete control over another person is not natural and is more akin to slavery than anything else. In contrast, there are many ways that a person can influence another without tampering with their self-determination, i.e. when a person does not bend another's will through withholding food, clothing, visas, and passports. Does it violate your existence? If yes, it's control. Influence can be feeding another with ideas and ideals, but brainwashing is the unacceptable limit of this influence. Influence arises from the authority structure present in most, if not all, cultures. Lastly, someone always remains above another; world-records are usually broken, so there is a levelling effect present in influence. I was reminded of these facts when I read the following:

It towered so vast above petty human creation, so elemental in a man-made world, that even if all the men who had lived in all the past millennia had opened up their arms as wide as they could and carried everything they had ever created or intended to create and piled it all up in massive heaps, they could never have raised a mountain ridge as fantastic as the Caucasus. Alexander Solzhenitsyn. August 1914. Trans. Glenny

Fly on! Enjoy the feeling! Breathe it! But remember that you can always fall to the ground because your being is governed by many laws.

All That Stress

In the previous post I described how adrenaline remained in my system even though it was clear there was no need for it. I just read a movie review of Crank in which the main character must keep moving and awake to retard the effect of a deadly poison. Since it is September and I am starting a very demanding degree, I have been thinking about stress and what causes it. In the past during school I have been like Jason Stratham in the movie, always on the move, adrenaline flowing and without peace. Understandably, university is intense, so my body should react somewhat, but my reaction seems excessive to me even though it is within the normal limits of student stress levels. I have determined that much of my stress results from a feeling of being out-of-control. If I had all the time in the world school would not be stressful, I would be in control. I could study for each test appropriately and do thorough research on my papers. The fact is that I don't have nearly enough time. I feel out-of-control because so many things enter my study time, necessary things. Should I resent going out for coffee with other students? No way, if I want friends and compatriots. Also my grades lie in the hands of my professors, what they will assign and expect.
Control truly is an illusion. Who knows when sickness will scupper all our plans? What can I really control? Is it really that big of a deal? I have heard of those employees who believe that the company will come to a halt if they take a vacation. What will halt is their control of the workplace. So what I can control are my expectations and the demands that I put on myself and not let them control me. The thing about stress is that you cannot lie to your body. If you feel cause for stress you will be stressed, sure, tell yourself it is not a big deal, but if you don't believe it you'll take two hours to get to sleep while fretting about needless details. This need for belief necessitates the change of our mindset, logic must prevail : if I can't change it who can? Many people have their own answers, for me it is he who stated "but trust, for I have conquered the world."

Angel Moment

We have a glass door in our dining room that leads to an outdoor patio and a couple of weeks ago my daughter put her arm through it. Evelyn had just jumped on the couch and she was running back to get the farthest possible start when she tripped. I watched with horror and anxiety as I saw her entire arm go through the glass, stopped from a complete trajectory through the window by her torso. Immediately, I reached for a towel, ran to my daughter and yelled to my wife. My intention was that my wife would start the car while I applied pressure to the wound with the towel. Then we would rush to Emergency and hopefully Evelyn would not lose that much blood. Instead, I got to her and found no blood at all. There was a little glass on her hand and upon later inspection a cut under her arm, but only the first layers were scratched. Evelyn was fine, but I was not. Despite telling myself repeatedly that she was fine, my being would not respond to this information and adrenaline flowed through my veins for a few more hours. Her slight injuries defied my expectation. The next morning I took her to the clinic first thing to ensure that no invisible damage was done. The Dr. said she was fine, but that all the nerves and blood vessels for the arm and hand ran 1cm deep under her cut. Her injuries could have been so much worse. I was thanking God so much for her safety, but remained puzzled by the way the glass broke because two large pieces were pushed through leaving a thin rim remaining around the frame. My conclusion was that some force pushed the glass out just before her fall. In telling this story I have heard many other close-call stories in return, angels really are watching over us.

Tradition and Reason

Upon reflection, part of the reason that I and many in my mixed culture seek reasons why is a lack of tradition : I have no idea what my ancestors did or believed. The chain is broken. What spiritual beliefs? What did those stars represent? What do those birds sing of? What happens after starlings flee? These questions came with no answers, not even a framework for me. What is true for me? leads me to explore, prove and adopt. Although no pure tradition exists except in isolation, since influence relentlessly pursues even the most xenophobic culture, the difference is that those with a strong tradition have a root to grow out of. Multi-racial, -cultural, -ethnic make-ups, by nature and contrast, have internal conflicts. Also certain cultural roots are often either preferred or suppressed. My parents are first generation Canadians, yet I do not speak Gaelic, Dutch or Chinese. Where do I come from? During different periods of my life I have even stressed my relation to certain cultural groups by diminishing or not recognizing the other cultures present in my make-up. I am? I used to envy those with an easy answer, but now I view myself as an alloy : I have some strengths that derive only from the fact that I am a mixture. I realize that I can neither escape my roots nor can I only be my "base-metal". Since few answers have been given to me, I'll continue to explore what causes what.

Was Mark Mothersbaugh really the front-man for Divo? Wow! And he can write "Let Me Tell You About My Boat".

Hungry!

I just made a donation to World Vision to supply rural children in Uganda that walk to the city each evening to avoid capture and subsequent forced enlistment in the rebel army with blankets, etc... Unfortunately, I had to turn down supporting Unicef because of my commitment to World Vision and Feed the Children. The need is so great! I have really enjoyed dialoguing with Unicef volunteers downtown and on the phone. They are doing a really good job. Unicef, due to their wide volunteer base gives 90 percent of what you donate to children in need. World Vision the last time I checked gave 86 percent and Feed the Children gave a similar percentage (who wants to pad already full pockets). All are good : choose one and help those that are hungry and scared.

Pleasuring

Wow! The whole month of July has passed by without me blogging. Renovations have taken up most of my time outside my regular work/parenting schedule but I have squeezed in some moments of enjoyment. One moment came tonight when I put away the mower and witnessed a spectacular sunset. Jean Vanier's Drawn into the Mystery of Jesus through the Gospel of John remains a consistent source of pleasure. In many ways the book embodies more than pleasure and often I feel the words reaching my soul. In addition to trans-soul communication Vanier provides many thought-provoking statements, e.g.

We human beings are a mixture of the presence of God and the absence of God, of light and darkness, truth and chaos, goodness and evil, openness and closedness.
No human being in himself or herself is holy or pure.
We become holy only through the holiness of God.

I wonder if Hans, to whom I gave the book, has ventured into its rich pages.

Last week I went out to a Euro-pub for dinner and got to sample some fabulous beers from their menu : My brother said, "They have a Cognac beer." right away I ordered it. I also tried the Wee Heavy and a Chocolate Stout. Fortunately, my local liquor store carries these and the Cognac remains my favourite, its flavours are as complex as a fine red, though I am looking forward to the stout.

Also, for my birthday I finally picked up Hancock's Gershwin's World and Pat Metheny's Speaking of Now Live. Gershwin's World is much better than Possibilities (the last Hancock album I bought) in which Hancock voluntarily took a backseat to other artists. Joni Mitchell is amazing and rivals her accompaniment to Neil Young on The Last Waltz. Wayne Shorter always rocks and Hancock's talent, appropriately, stands out. Metheny, Anthony Sanchez and Richard Bona stand out on the DVD. Ironically (because Sanchez was present), the DVD was filmed among a conservative and relatively sparse Japanese crowd (possibly favoured for their expression of appreciation being limited to enthusiastic applause after each song as opposed to shouts during the performance).

Alpha Yaya Diallo played downtown for Canada Day. The concert was a highlight of July and the fireworks that followed rounded out an awesome night. Dancing with my family in front of the Parliament buildings and viewing the fireworks on my dad's boat stand out. Hopefully I will find the CD tomorrow.