For Those Undeserving

At times our love seems so ignorant. Not mine and ours. But all of ours. Human love. It has this naive air to it. A new born baby, so demanding and temperamental, throwing a fit and tossing all its toys from the pram. How terrified are we about love? We fear losing it, worry the people we give it to will not protect it as fiercely as we ourselves do, and we e are terrified over losing it, worried the people we give it to will not protect it as fiercely as we ourselves do, and we expect so much in return. Even when we do give it, we are waiting for a reason to take it back. Take it away.

From my experiences, true love doesn't come with conditions, restrictions, or rules. It comes uninhibited and determined. It comes free and vast. It is the winning ticket where the prize is too valuable to understand. Imagine giving love to someone without wanting or needing it in return is boggling to our tiny brains. It is exhilarating to think about. A simple and novel idea, yet seemingly so complex, difficult to accept let alone execute. Because love doesn't conform to one set of rules, because it is flexible and an emotional chameleon, it is near impossible to imagine being able to spread it to those who are most deserving. And the idea of loving those who are deemed unlovable is baffling.

Why would we do such a thing?

Why would we love those we loathe? The ones we hate, who anger us to the point of violence, the ones who provoke our own bad behaviours, who stoke the fires of our cynicism and have us calling for them to reap what they sow, for karma to pay unto them the misery and hurt they've showered onto others. The anger comes easy. To despise those who do atrocious things, unspeakable things, things we cannot accept or understand.

But aren't these undeserving undesirables the ones who truly need love?

There is a simple fact, one most people don't take into consideration, but it's the only truth I am a hundred percent certain of. Happy, healthy people do not hurt others. Happy, healthy people do not torture, rape or murder. Happy, healthy people do not spread misery and hate. So, are these wounded, broken, unhappy people not those who need love the most? To guide them. To heal them. Or, if nothing else, to be the flickering light in the vast darkness in which they dwell?

This is not easy. Not in a world where we coddle our love and worry over who we give it to. How can we possibly extend compassion and love to the broken, lonely, unhealthy people when we have a hard time giving it to those who are good and nice? The answer is plain, with no flashing lights or bells and whistles. Practice. To be able to love everything, everyone, all things big and small, we must practice unselfish love. We must practice giving it without expectations and demands, without wants and needs, without restrictions.

When you find yourself confronted with an unfathomable deed done by a truly wicked person, remember: happy, healthy people don't hurt others. And even in the most horrific circumstances, selfless love does exist, and compassion can be found for even those who seem lost, broken and unlovable.

The Gratitude Booklet

I live in a beautiful village where nice things happen all the time. This makes me supremely lucky, and it's something I am grateful for every single day of my life. Not all people live in such a magnificent part of the world, where they can be in the mountains and at the beach in the same day. Where they can drink water from their tap and know their neighbours' names.

Some people might want examples of nice things that happen in my village. Well, every Wednesday we put out our garbage and recycling and someone always puts our cans inside our property. It's a small thing, lifting our empty cans over the fence, but it tucks them out of the way so they don't go rolling down the street if it's too windy, and it means we can access our parking without being inconvenienced by getting out of the truck to move them. We don't know who does this, but every week, without fail, they do. Another example, during winter someone shovelled the walkway to our gate more than a handful of times. Again, we don't know who did this, but it's one of those gestures that makes this place a great spot to live.

But the sweetness of this town, extends beyond our neighbours. It't the rest of the population too. Chalked messages of love show up around town and are washed away the next time it rains. The community Facebook posts notices about found keys and cellphones, or about injured animals seen on the trails in the forest along with warnings to keep dogs leashed in those areas.

Today, I found yet another amazing thing to add to the 'why I love where I live' list. The little book of gratitude. There's a trail in the forest call the Missing Link trail and it actually goes up to this peak where a wooden bench has been built for people to sit. Here you can look out over the town and, I swear, the air is freshest up there.

When I reached the top this morning, I noticed a little plastic baggie stuffed into the back board of the bench. Upon inspection, I noticed it was a booklet and pen.

In fact, it was the gratitude booklet. A book where people had taken the time to pause a moment and consider what they were grateful for in life.

Out of curiosity, I read through what other people were grateful for. A lot of them were simply ecstatic over being a live, on the trails, running, riding, being healthy and touching the sky. It's a small thing this book, but as I read through it, it changed my morning. It took away the morning annoyances and really made me focus on breathing. I was there, on top of the world, free and alive.

All the posts made me happy, but this one took the cake: 

Ride fast, just a bit of advice from 'N'. How truly fantastic. I hope his dad knows how important he is.

Tattoos Hurt - FYI

For some reason, whenever you get a tattoo, people feel the need to ask if it hurts. Just so everyone is on the same page about this form of art. Yes, tattoos hurt. Quite a bit, in fact. It isn't always the same pain all the way through, though. It's varying degrees of ouch. Oh, and some areas hurt more than others.

Pain is a tricky creature.

In the tattooing world, it is known that the top of the foot and the neck hurt the most. Since I have both of my feet done, I will have to get a neck tattoo to tell you which one hurts more. Right now, though, I have to say the wrist hurts more, especially if you are doing more than a stupid line drawing.

Today, my Sidekick tattooed a beautiful cover-up on me. It took about three hours and thirty-seven of those minutes were this needling, burning, terrible pain I was certain I wasn't going to live through. I tried to not whine or writhe, but there were these tender spots I seriously regretted having done. Most of the other minutes were uncomfortable, but bearable. And about twenty-four of those minutes I was in very little pain. Regardless, the whole time there was hurting going on. 

Some people deal with pain better than others. Some people love pain. Thrive off it. Enjoy it. I am not one of those creature. That being said, I have a fairly high threshold for pain and just because I sat for three hours, doesn't mean someone else can. To be honest, I mostly did it to prove my Sidekick wrong. And also, I like finishing what is started on the spot, so there is no need to go back to it in the future. 

While I am sad to say goodbye to my adorable line bunny, I am happy to say hello to my new, bigger, more badass bunny. And also, I love my cabbage. So, I am very happy. Now I have come down from my adrenaline high and need to go to bed. Goodnight. 

27 Degrees

No, this isn't an all boy pop band. Although, I did just have this conversation with my Sidekick: 

Me: 98 Degrees ... that's insane. I mean, how hot is that.

He: No, you fool. Fahrenheit, not Celsius. 

Me: Oh. Did you just call me a fool?

I live in Canada. So, when I say it was twenty seven degrees, I mean it was in the eighties for you folks down in the United States of America. By the way, the metric system is grand and you all, or y'all, should hop on board, so I don't have to be called a fool anymore. Regardless, I am a bit foolish, and this whole scenario made me laugh. 

That being said, it was hot out today. It's the beginning of May, everything is in bloom, and I seriously regretted wearing tights to work. Thank goodness I had the foresight to leave my pants at home. No pants is always ideal when dealing with summer-like conditions. 

With the sun comes trips to the beach, higher levels of serotonin, skimpy clothes and shots of vitamin D. Depression goes out the window when you're speeding down the highway at 140 (kimometers, not miles), listening to catchy beats, and eating cherries. It is known. Unfortunately, down goes productivity on writing projects and the cleanliness of one's abode. 

Still, summer is around the corner and I live in a beautiful part of the world. And I feel like being happy about that. 

And here I am with another fool. 

Oh, Mr. Sun

I think I can speak for everyone in the Comox Valley when I say, today was an absolutely gorgeous day. There is a reason why the West Coast is the Best Coast. It's March 31st and the weather was dreamy. After work, I went home and sat in the front yard with the boys. We simply soaked up the sun. The gloriously warm sun. It felt as if I was saying hello to a long lost friend, a lovely one that I'd missed so much. 

Despite my extensive vocabulary, words cannot explain how nice it was to simply sit on my porch and bask in the sunshine. And that's why we have pictures. I happened to snap one of Dixon that basically sums up how I felt. 

Look at that face. Utter joy!

Anyhow, I am grateful for living on the Best Coast. I mean, to think all those East Coasters talking about snow storms and such. Suckers!

Stripped Bare

Sometimes, I stand naked in front of the mirror and look at myself. Into myself. I strip myself bare and look at my bones. My soul. The key components of who I am as a person. I do this because it's a reminder. Not that my thighs are jiggly and my hair is pretty much always unkempt, but that I am human. That I am on a journey. That these moments are my life and I should be participating in the fullest degree. These seconds, minutes, hours, days, months and years, cannot just slip by.

Every moment is precious. Every day I wake up a gift. Each moon rise noteworthy. The sunrises important.

It's easy to get sidetracked. To get swallowed by emotions and worries, strife, grief and uncertainty. The longer I stare at my bared body and soul, the more I see how convoluted existing can seem. But seem is an impression, not necessarily truth, and if you dim the lights and change the angle, everything shifts. Morphs. Looks different.

There is so much noise these days. So many distractions. We are carrying computers on us everywhere we go and this new fangled technology hinders us. Even when we are with our family and friends, we aren't with our family and friends. We are with our family and friends, and the hundred or so friends we have on our Facebook, Instagram, Twitter or whatever social media is our current vice. The noise gets to me. It grinds me down. Out in the world, there are radios and cars, people, phones, televisions everywhere. It's why I moved away from the city. Why I am in fact living in a village. But I love it here.

Because it is easier for me to strip myself bare. Because when I leave my house there are mountains all around me. Because the air smells of smoke and forest. Because the streets are quite. Because the stars can be seen when I look up at the night sky.

Still, even with all this wonderment around me, I get distracted. I forget. And I get downtrodden, especially in highly emotional times. I get weary. Tried. Broken. I forget how blessed I am. How happy I can be. And how healing the earth is.

So, I strip myself bare. And stand in front of the mirror and look. Not at how my belly may just be a bit bigger than it was last year, but at my soul. I reconnect with the girl I am, and the girl I want to be. The one who wants flowers in her hair and no shoes on her feet. It only takes a moment to reconnect with myself, but it's so important. Because when I lose sight of who I am, it gets hard. This whole thing is all about ebb and flow, I wonder why that always slips my mind.

The truth is I don't want my journey to be a burden. I want it to be an adventure.

It's nice to check in and see I am still here.

It's Sunny!

Gloriously sunny!

We should all take a note from the weather. One day, blustery, rainy and grey, the next sunshine and fluffy white clouds.

Something like, don't let yesterday's rainstorm ruin today's sun.

Or another optimistic
sunny side of life motto.

Grateful for Mother Nature and her mood swings today.

Ogdred Weary

Today is Edward Gorey's birthday! For anyone who doesn't know of this uniquely amazing man, he was a master illustrator, creative genius, and one of the rarest gems ever to exist on this rocky plain. Not only can we celebrate his macabre books, which there are over a hundred of, but his unusual way of looking at life. This man was the true definition of strange and brilliant. And I am grateful he existed, for the world would have been a far less interesting place without him. Before Tim Burton, there was Mr. Gorey and his ominous tales told through a tip of a pen.

Even though Gorey's literary catalogue is deep and plentiful many of his works are hard to find, all because of his love for word play, especially anagrams. A lot of his books were published under pseudonyms of his own name, most notably Ogdred Weary. Another name he used was Eduard Blutig which actually isn't an anagram, but still a word game. Blutig is German for bloody or Gory. A few of the other names he wrote under were Mrs. Regera Dowdy, Raddory Gewe, and E.G. Deadworry.

Here are some more ponderable facts about Edward Gorey:

• His parents divorced when he was 11 and remarried when he was 27.
• He attended Harvard and roomed with poet Frank O'Hara 
• A lot of John Bellairs cover  art was illustrated by Gory.
• A few of Gorey's works were in fact wordless and his illustrations always had a Victorian and Edwardian style to them, not to mention an air of ominousness. 
• An unabashed 'pop culture junkie' Gorey loved television, movies, and soap operas. He stated in interviews his love for Batman and Buffy The Vampire Slayer. 
• Gorey was never married and confessed to have little interest in romance. 
• When asked about his sexual orientation, he said, "I've never said that I was gay and I've never said that I wasn't ... what I'm trying to say is that I am a person before I am anything else."
• His home in Cape Cod is called Elephant House and is now the Edward Gorey House Museum.
• This quirky gentleman left the bulk of his estate to a charitable trust for animals, dogs, cats and even bats and insects. 

A Gothic icon, Gorey stretched the bounds and falls into a very grey area. Though his artwork is often categorized for children, he did not write or draw for our youth, nor did he have much of a fondness for them. In truth, Gorey's works cannot be put into any one genre. Sure, you can find his books in the humour or cartoon section at your nearest bookstore, but he experimented all the time and often his artwork falls into a surrealist niche. Not to mentions his experiments - books that are wordless or ones the size of a matchbox, popup books or ones filled with inanimate objects - these only make it all that much harder to classify this man. 

Gorey himself described his work as literary nonsense. Which kind of only endears me to him more. Though he once said, "Ideally, if anything were any good, it would be indescribable." And that truly is what this man was. Good and indescribable.

Happy Birthday, Edward Gorey, you beautifully odd man. May your dark humour live on forever. 

Home

It's nice to have a place to come back to after a long journey. Or not so long journey.

Comfortable bed. Delightful teas. The sound of hounds snoring and the hum of the dryer. Familiar smells of laundry soap and dog feet. My favourite mugs. And my own pillow. The same old heart-stuttering kisses. Routine. Face soap and toothpaste. Laughter. Unpredictable predictability. Life as it should be. Where everything is as I left it. In and out of place. Different and the same.

Mine.

A place where I am only me and can exist as such.

Home.

I am thankful I have one.

There is nothing better than that first sleep back after time away.

Where I Live

This tiny village that I live is rather enthralling and I am supremely grateful for it. Small town living is totally for me. There are pretty much only a handful of shops on the main street. The only traffic that we get is when the folk from the neighbouring town come over for festivals and special occasions. It kind of reminds me of Stars Hollow from Gilmore Girls, except not as nearly big and a little more white trashy.

I just love it.

A little example of why?

Yesterday, I parked like a jerk. Backwards, on the wrong side of the street, and half over the stall behind me. It was the worst parking job I have ever done. I was just popping into the store, but I felt bad as soon as I stepped out of my truck. So much so, I felt the need to point it out to the woman working at the shop. She just laughed and said it was better than most of the parking jobs she's seen out there.

And she said, "The best part is you won't get a ticket. I don't think a ticket has ever been written in our town."

It's true. We don't even have police officers!

It's a beautiful place, truly. It reminds me of the saying 'it takes a village', I think this is what they had in mind.

Just a Friday night in the town I love.

Retrain Your Brain