An Examined Life

What if the artists had listened to their parents? What if the pressure to conform trumped their passion? Who would interpret the world?

The starving artist is a cliché, yet it shouldn’t be. Artists suffer because we don’t understand their place in our world. There is a tendency to consider poetry, fiction, movies, paintings as ‘nice to haves’ rather then necessities. I know I don’t always value their contribution.

Yet, I find sometimes while I am watching live theatre, that I am moved to tears, not because of the content of the play but just by the full commitment of the actors to their craft.

Artists are artists because they can’t not be. I am sure there are times when they would rather that the cup pass them by, that they could have a ‘real job’. Thankfully they don’t.

Here’s to the artists. To those who put brush to canvas, pen to paper, voice to song. Here’s to those who choose the harder way, who willingly put themselves in the line of fire for rejection and criticism. Here’s to those for whom it “must be nice” to be able to struggle and work to express beauty on a page.

Here’s to those artists who have left indelible marks in my life after a night of theatre. Here’s to the musicians that played such that I couldn’t do anything else but cheer out loud at the sheer joy of hearing their music. Here’s to the painters whose work is on our walls reflecting a view that I couldn’t have seen myself. Here’s to the poets who words have staggered me backwards with their honesty.

Here’s to the storytellers, the expressers of beauty, the interpreters of truth, the harbingers of what could be.

Let’s all stand a raise a glass. To the artists!

Yesterday I was riding a chairlift and the guy beside me was smoking. I would never hire a smoker. I mean, their rights aren’t enshrined anywhere are they? Is there a right to stupidity? It just boggles the mind that with all we know, and all the warnings, yet still they light up. In fact they spend large amounts, monthly, for the privilege of slowly killing themselves.

What an odd lot we humans are. We are constantly saying how important life is, then we work our damndest to make sure we fuck it up. We treat our bodies the same way we treat the environment we live in – destroying it from the inside out.

What is wrong with us? Why can’t we stop?

Christoper Hitchens, the writer and provocateur recently died of throat cancer. He was a chain smoker and an alcoholic. He claimed cigarettes and drink made him a better writer. Maybe for a short time, but now he’s a dead writer at 62 leaving behind a wife and children. Clearly not as smart as he’d been made out to be.

I am thinking that a lot of it comes from our arrogance. Our need to feel we are in control. That we know more than what the collective science knows. I may be pointing the finger, but I know I am just as much a part of the problem. I might not light up, but I am certainly not beyond polluting myself or the world around me.

If you are reading this, and are a smoker, I make no apologies. You need to quit. I have no sympathy.

Here’s to a world with no ashtrays.

“80% of success is showing up” – Woody Allen

I am often accused of being lucky. I stand guilty as charged. I have a tremendous amount of unmerited good fortune – in family, in friends, and in my life. It’s hard to take credit for things that have often felt outside of my control.

In the early years of when I had my own company we got to a point one Christmas when we’d pretty much run out of money. I had called my partners in and told them that we had enough to pay employees one more pay cheque, but if nothing new came through, we were done by New Years. I then left for a meeting with a potential customer.

We had pitched this customer a new idea, rather far fetched, and were thinking the meeting was about trying to convince them of its merits. Instead, he told us that they liked the idea very much and wanted to purchase our software (that didn’t really exist yet!). His only issue was that it was the end of the budget year, so would it be ok if they paid it all up front, instead of in installments as is usually the case. We couldn’t believe it. This would be the biggest deal we had done to date. It definitely saved the company.

That story is part of my personal folklore. It’s a humbling reminder to me of how lucky I am. But it also suggests that I have to put myself in a position be lucky. I have to continue to risk, ask, try. I have to show up. The result may be out of my control, but the effort isn’t.

I was thinking about that episode from Gilligan’s Island (for you younger readers, Gilligan’s Island was a TV show, kinda like Lost, only funny) where Gilligan fashions himself a pair of wings and is testing them out. The Skipper finds him hovering just off the edge of a cliff.

“Gilligan what are you doing?”

“I’m flying”

“You can’t fly”

“I can’t?”

“no!”

…And Gilligan prompting drops like a rock. His perception of himself changed based on the Skipper’s words.

Last week a light switch bust in our house. My perception of myself is that I am no good at handyman stuff. But, it seemed ridiculous ( if not a tad embarrassing) to call in an electrician to fix it. In fact, I had an idea to wait until other electrical stuff screwed up, so the accumulated work would justify that call. However, Lisa was having book club that night and it wouldn’t do to have no light in the powder room for the ladies. So, off I went to Home Depot.

Step one, don’t look like a doofus fumbling around in the aisles. Act like you know what you’re doing. Just my luck, there were options! How was I supposed to know which one! So, I made an educated guess. And I bought two, just in case.

Back home I shut down the power (I know that much), and after a couple of attempts completed the simple, but for me daunting, task of changing a light switch.

In the moment when I turned the light on (and off and on and off and on) my perception of myself changed. It may have been just one small light to pee by, but it was also a large silencing of that ‘skipper’s’ voice in my head telling me I wasn’t up for such a task.

3am Sunday morning they started. In unison they barked and barked. I lay in bed wondering when the neighbours were going to shut up their dogs. They didn’t. 4:15am I got a call wondering why I hadn’t shut up our dogs.

“We don’t have dogs”. “Well, I walked down the path and the barking is coming from your yard!”.

I walked out front, and sure enough, in the beam of the flashlight were two sets of green eyes in the trees. I clapped my hands (I have no idea what I expected from that gesture), and from the dark I could hear dogs charging toward me. I ran back to the house calling for Lisa to open the door as I didn’t want to get mauled. She started to laugh.

Racing down the steps behind me were two slightly pudgy labs who’s tails were causing their hips to swing side to side. They seemed so happy to see me. Clearly they liked clapping.

We fed them, and found a place for them to sleep. They calmed down and were quiet the remainder of the night.

I lay awake, surprised by how I was feeling. Usually I chase dogs off the property and haven’t got much time for other people’s animals. In this case though, despite them waking me, I felt more than charitable, I felt happy.

I realize now, my happiness came from doing something good. I did something for another being, with no desire for return. I was lying in bed staring at the ceiling, but the dogs were settled, and the neighbhourhood was quiet. The surprise came, I guess, from the fact that usually it’s all about me. Most of the time, even when I do find myself generous or charitable, it’s without much sacrifice.

I am thinking that, from now on, I want to pay more attention to the ‘barking’ in my life.

Generally speaking there are two kinds of people in the world: those that divide the world into two groups, and those that don’t….

I’ve been thinking a lot about the simplicity of a binary world – this or that, yes or no, fries or salad. Yet, I am drawn to stories – books, films, plays – that show the struggle of moral ambiguity, uncertainty, and doubt.

My favorite movie of last year “The Tree of Life” begins with a voice over: ‘The nuns taught us there were two ways through life - the way of nature and the way of grace. You have to choose which one you’ll follow.’ If only it was that easy, as the rest of the film goes on to show.

In the middle, life happens. Rather than black and white, most often I feel like it’s all 64 colours of the Crayola box. That’s not a license, but rather just the way it is. I make choices every day, but most aren’t prescribed, instead they are greatly informed by circumstances and situations – sometimes nature, sometimes grace.

What I do believe is that I am the one doing the deciding. I have been given all the tools and ability to make the right choice, but it’s my responsibility to figure out what that is within the context. Life for me feels like improv comedy – you work with what your given, some bits are funny, others not so much.

When I was younger I feared uncertainty, picturing myself on a big ocean without a rudder. Now I see it as part of the design. I am supposed to think for myself, I am supposed to fail and learn from it, I am supposed to see various sides of the same dilemma. Instead of answers, I like questions. Instead of certainty, I like wonder.

I have this idea for struggling farmers: become personal trainers. No, seriously, they wouldn’t have to change anything – just charge putty butted city folk to come out and work on the farm with them three times a week. They may have to throw in a few “you can do it’s” and “gimme three more of those” – but otherwise, it’s business as usual.

It’s January and the fitness centres are packed with people like me resolving that this year will be different. The secret to the success of those gyms is that come February, no one shows up, but the subscriptions have already been paid. They bank on the lack of willpower to better their bottom line.

I live in probably the best place on earth to be outside all year around. Where other parts of Canada have winter November through April, we have it Tuesday through Thursday. Sure it rains, but as a friend once asked “what, are you made of sugar?”

So why do I go inside for an hour to spin on a bike that doesn’t go anywhere, when I have a great bike hanging in my garage.? But, then again, I am not beyond hopping in my car to drive the one block –one block – to the store for milk.

This morning I hiked with a friend to the top of our local mountain, starting just before the sun rose. I could have done the same mileage on the Stairmaster – but I would have missed the cool air, the sun coming over the far hills, and the sense of accomplishment and camaraderie as we passed the water bottle back and forth at the top.

I am thinking that, unless one lives in the middle of Manhattan (even then there’s Central Park!), all the fitness opportunities we need lie just on the other side of the front door. Or if you need something a little more, call your local farmer, I am sure he’ll take your $60/hr to help him bale hay.

I have wasted time, got into trouble, and lost money all because I said yes, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Saying no, generally, is easier. (except in the case of temptation, but let’s not go there) When I say no, I am off the hook. No to a meeting, no to request for assistance, no to giving or investing money – even typing that feels good.

I mean, I don’t like moving other people’s stuff or giving rides to the airport any more than the next person, but what am I missing in saying no? I figure eight times out of ten - nothing.

However, maybe not wanting to isn’t a good enough reason to say no. Doing that which I don’t necessarily want to do is often in fact the better choice. Clearly there are times when saying no make absolute sense. I heard a guy yesterday use the term ‘a good quality no’. I like that. Why am I saying no? Is it for the right reasons?

All that said though, yes is still my favorite. Without it I never would have acted on stage, I wouldn’t have found myself in Northern Uganda, I would never have had a software company, and I wouldn’t have the amazing family I have. All my friends come from me saying yes at some point.

Volunteering, charitable giving, and people in need of a truck all require a yes in order for them to be successful. “Yes” makes things happen. Saying yes is the beginning of an adventure, an opportunity, or a challenge. It can be fraught with risk, it requires trust, and it demands more of me that I often want to give.

Saying yes is like leaning in toward life.

When there is a knock on the door at our house it always seems a surprise. “Who could that be?”. It’s usually a canvasser wanting money or two Jehovah’s Witnesses. Rarely is it a friend who just happened to be in the neighborhood. I don’t expect people to just drop by.

I can’t remember the last time I did that to anyone else either. I always call or more likely wait for an invite. We all lead busy lives and can’t afford the time to just drop everything because someone’s come to visit – can we?

We had a new family move into our neighborhood a while back. Every time I bumped into him (can’t remember his name now) he’d say that Lisa and I should ‘pop around for a glass of wine sometime’. That was his invite. We never did. They’ve moved since.

Twice in the last year another neighbour has locked himself out of the house after work and ended up at our place around 5:30pm, unannounced. Once was just as Game 7 was about to start – I was heading out the door, so he just settled in and watched the game with the boys and helped himself to beer. The next time we were about to head out the door when he arrived. We begrudgingly changed our plans, opened a bottle of wine and ended up having a great evening. When his wife got home with the keys she joined us.

Generally speaking, I like to be prepared for visitors. You know, house tidy, good music and lighting, clean clothes. Give the ‘right’ impression. But, I am not sure that’s how community is supposed to work. I am thinking it’s more like seeing the very unprepared scenario of my neighbour sitting between my kids on the couch watching hockey.

So, I guess what I’m really saying here is if you happen to be in the neighbourhood, drop by. We’d love to see you.

I grew up in a household where social activism was part our daily lives. My mum was the President of the Voice of Women – a group focused at that time on bringing an end to the Vietnam War. I was in candle light vigils downtown and at potlucks for draft dodgers. We had ‘Ban the Bomb’ posters up in our house, letter campaigns managed from our dining room table, and my mother was sure the RCMP was reading our mail worried she was a communist.

It became a real issue when the Queen came to town on her Royal Yacht, and as Harbour Master my dad had certain official responsibilities. Somehow my mum was assumed to be a potential threat to the monarchy. It was very cool as a kid to watch and realize that our ‘small’ lives were actually having an impact on a much larger stage.

There’s having a social conscience, like only drinking fair trade coffee and signing online petitions, there’s charity, giving money and time to stem the symptoms of injustice, and then there’s actual social justice – giving real voice and action against the root causes of oppression, poverty, and violence.

I’ve done ok on the first two, but have pretty much missed the boat on the third. There’s an easy answer as to why. Social Justice is a pain in the ass. It’s hard, and it’s always at odds with the status quo. Standing up for what is right is often a lonely prospect – it sure doesn’t get one invited to too many cocktail parties.

I had discounted the Occupy Movement as misguided and fringe. I’ve changed my mind. Sure, it was messy, and the media highlighted its downside, but at the centre there was a large group of people willing to stand for something – to give a collective voice to the real issues of our day. The vast majority of occupiers were being the change they wanted to see in the world. And, in her day, I am sure my mum would have been arm and arm with them.