Here is a list of seven of the simple pleasures in my life. These are the things I look forward to each morning when I wake up.
Morning Coffee
I usually stick to one coffee a day, but I make sure to enjoy the hell out of it. There’s nothing better in the winter than a hot cup to warm your hands and a little caffeine to warm your veins.
Listening to a Podcast
One of the benefits of my day job of detailing cars is that I get to wear headphones and have little if any interaction with the general public. It’s nice to be able to show up and throw on a podcast to either learn something or have a good laugh. Some of my favourite podcasts are: The Joe Rogan Experience, The Church of What’s Happening Now, TigerBelly, This Past Weekend, Congratulations, Hardcore History, Your Mom’s House, The Fighter & the Kid, and anything with Norm MacDonald.
Listening to an Album
I usually rotate between podcasts and albums. Some times I like the conversation, other times I prefer the music. I love to throw on some old country music albums like: Don’t Close Your Eyes – Keith Whitley; Always & Forever – Randy Travis; or Country Club – Travis Tritt. There are also some good modern country albums like: Southeastern – Jason Isbell; Metamodern Sounds in Country Music – Sturgill Simpson; or Behind This Guitar – Mo Pitney. When I’ve had my fix of country, I’ll put on some hip hop, metal, jazz, pop, basically any genre as long as it’s got the goods.
Writing
During the day I allow myself time to think without any input. I turn off the music and podcasts and just listen for any tunes or words that are floating around. It helps if I’m by a notepad or a guitar but voice notes will help to preserve the idea. You can kill an idea if you don’t act on it soon though. It’s best to stick that idea in the oven as soon as you’ve mixed the batter. This practice feeds my soul and allows me to see the world a little more clearly.
Gym
I look forward to hitting the gym right after work. It used to be a chore that I’d do on a “when I feel like it” basis. But nothing really productive ever comes from a half-ass commitment. It’s now turned into a part of my routine that I look forward to—of course some days more than others. But overall it makes my supper more enjoyable, my evening more relaxing, and the mirror not as scary.
Watching a Show
I don’t watch much TV. I’m the guy who skips conversations about Game of Thrones, or whatever the big show is this month. I’m quite “meat and potatoes” when it comes to TV. My favourite show as a kid was Seinfeld. In the world of Netflix and HBO there are so many great options. I recently started watching an episode or two in the evenings when I’ve finished my work. A few good series I’ve found are: Big Mouth, Fargo, or I’ll throw on a stand up comedy special.
Playing Music with Friends
There’s a kind of magic about playing music with people who are really good at it; it’s like telepathy. It can be a tightly rehearsed piece of work or a loose improv conversation, and either way you’re learning something new. Playing with a band teaches trust, discipline, openness, patience, and versatility. It’s obvious that the music is what’s important in a band but I also think it’s just as important to like the people you’re playing with. I’m fortunate to have found such a group (and a handsome one at that). Drop your ego and hear the other people’s input—they may be hearing something you aren’t.
These are a few of the things that give me a reason to get up in the morning. Take a look at your own day. What do you spend your time doing? Does it bring you meaning or does suck the life out of you? Go out there and enjoy the simple pleasures in your life. Thanks for reading!
This summer, I went to donate blood for the first time. In my mind, this was a way to get some free cookies while making sure I didn’t have AIDS—the donation part was a positive after effect. I half convinced myself I was ready to donate, though I made a few critical errors in my preparation.
It was another August day dubbed a ‘heat warning ‘ and I’d been at the beach all afternoon and did not stay adequately hydrated or nourished. So I walked into the donation clinic with my pink flamingo swim trunks and a sunburnt face to match. I went through the questionnaire, answering “no” to questions like, “Do you do cocaine or butt sex?” Though I’m sure they were more elegantly stated. I was given a sticker to wear that said, “Be nice to me, it’s my first time.” Like every dude before me, I thought about making the joke about wishing I had this sticker when I lost my virginity, but I decided against it as it was low-hanging fruit, and I’m better than that—sometimes.
I made it through the initial testing and got hooked up with an IV and a collection bag. The blood started to flow but the lady couldn’t quite figure out my pressure cuff so she called for backup. The two of them eventually got it figured out and gave me a stress ball to squeeze to help the blood flow. If that last sentence made you uneasy, then you’re like me. It was soon after squeezing this ball that my vision started to fade and my head got light.
“How are you doing?” the lady asked me.
“I’m feeling a little light-headed,” I said, which she knew right away meant, I’m going to pass out within ten seconds. I’m sure she’s heard that exact phrase countless time by sissy men trying to play it cool.
“We’re going to stop it right there,” she said.
She unhooked me and my arms began vibrating. She placed cold, damp towels on my forehead and behind my neck and flipped my chair back so my head was lower than my feet. I was given an apple juice and some bits and bites. In my purgatory state of consciousness, I caught a glimpse of two old ladies on chairs beside me, having a good ol’ laugh.
“So will we see you back again?” asked one of the old ladies as she turned toward her friend and laughed some more.
Before I could get a chance to respond she continued.
“This is my sixty-third time donating.”
Big fucking whoop, lady. You’re as old as the sun, I thought.
She continued, “It’s always the big, strong guys who come in acting tough who end up fainting.”
Ok, lady, let’s get it right. Number one, I didn’t faint. And number two, I’m not a big tough guy. But she wouldn’t stop talking.
“The wives come in with their husbands and the husband passes out and the wife is like, ‘I married a wuss!’” She looks at me again, “I’m not saying you’re a wuss…welllll.”
So after a few minutes, I took what was left of my pride to the break area, grabbed a couple of Oreos and hit the road. Some days you’re riding high, other days you’re being laughed at by old ladies. Life’s a motherfucker.
8pm is pretty dark this time of year, but I’ve learned to live quite well in the dark. This evening as I walked along the side of the highway, I noticed three things: the muscles in my legs were relatively strong, my mind was relatively clear, and the wet yellow leaves glistened like gold under the highway streetlights—all things that were not always the case. I began to reflect on the last three years. The last three years have not been easy, but they’ve provided me with teachings that I wouldn’t trade if given the choice.
Rewind to graduating high school. I was on track to becoming the man I thought the world wanted me to be. I figured with my stacked resume of athletics and customer service jobs that it was natural to progress into a form of service that would keep me on the move and keep people off my back. I thought I’d become a police officer. Then I thought I’d do search and rescue. Looking back at my mentality as a younger man, I realize I liked the idea of these jobs rather than actually doing them everyday. I wanted to be seen as a hero like my heroes before me. I wanted to be seen as a man of strength and courage like Muhammad Ali. But in my search for strength and courage, what I failed to see was grace and love.
After trying a year of university as a last ditch effort to figure out what I’d do with my life, I moved back home to PEI. I found a job at Quartermaster Marine where I worked cleaning, scraping barnacles, and bottom-painting boats. It was dirty, honest work and I didn’t mind doing it. I biked to work everyday and found a place to rent where I started building my own little life that wasn’t in a military barracks or a university residence. Though I’d taken a significant pay cut and had to deal with odd daily encounters like finding a family of raccoons living in a winterized boat, or befriending a young fox that visited the lot, I’d finally gained some control in my life and I began figuring out what was important to me.
Music was always a part of my life in some way but it became prominent when I moved back to P.E.I. It took me by the hand and introduced me to the right people, many of whom became great friends. My weekday evening ritual was to get home from work, get stoned, and learn a new song, guitar scale, or try my hand at writing. I found the music of Sturgill Simpson and Blaze Foley, who both sang bearing their heart and soul in their own way. I’d listen to their music and feel it deep in my chest. It was the beginning of something great.
During this time, I had many late and fun nights. And though I was meandering in my new passions, I had no aim. I was just flying by night and living in the moment. I think it’s important to live in the moment, but it’s also good to have goals for your life. I think both can be achieved, as I’m learning now. I also think that living too long without goals will take you out of the moment and then you’ll have no aim and can’t properly face the world. This is what happened to me when I started to slip.
I’d been living recklessly in the Navy and at university, but I was younger and these were structured institutions where my schedule was set and I could plan my partying around it. I soon realized that since I was now making my own decisions, I couldn’t keep up the same lifestyle. The things that once brought me joy began to turn on me. And besides, after a while you start to realize that you can’t party all the time, you’re here for a greater purpose. It can be a scary realization but you must listen.
About three years ago, I was at work with about an hour left in my shift. I felt a weird sensation in my chest. I started to get light-headed and had to sit down. I told my boss I wasn’t feeling well and asked if I could leave early. At first I thought it might be a virus, but my mind started to take over and eventually my body tightened up, my breath was shallow, and it felt like I was about to pass out. I’d never felt anything like it before. I told my boss that I needed to go to the hospital. I felt like I was dying. He could sense the seriousness in my face and tone and got someone to drive me to the emergency room.
The closer we got to the hospital the more my body tightened to the point where my hands seized up into claws and were no longer functional. They took me in right away and of course asked if I was on any drugs. I wasn’t. They hooked me up to an IV, heart-rate monitor, did a blood test, and whatever else. My parents were called. I lied in the hospital bed wearing that sexy gown, hooked up to a bunch of shit. During this time, my parents were called. What the fuck was going on? Mom arrived, and so did Dad. I rarely saw them in the same room as one another. My little brother and sister were there too. There was a look of concern and an eerie stillness to their faces, but I was starting to feel ok again. We waited for some results and I was back to smiling and cracking jokes. I felt fine again.
The doctor came in and said everything looked normal. He said something about my heart and some sort of minor blockage but that I could’ve had it since birth and that it probably wasn’t what was causing my troubles. So everything was fine, yet an hour earlier I felt like I was on death’s doorstep. We all left the hospital not knowing what was going on, or at least not saying anything more about it. What was this? At that time I didn’t know anything about panic attacks, or anxiety, or mental illness. I’d never learned about it in school and no one had ever talked to me about it.
This was the first event but it wasn’t the last. Things started to spiral. I remember too many times waking up in the middle of the night in terror. I ran out of the bedroom, heart racing. I’d go outside in the middle of winter in my underwear because I was so hot, then instantly come back inside and curl up by the heater with blankets because I was so cold. I tried drinking water and pacing and laying down on the couch just trying to ride out this storm in my mind and body until I eventually rolled around on the hardwood floor, too weak to make another move, and surrendering to death. If you’ve never experienced this, it might sound pathetic or dramatic, but I’d honestly accepted death. It was such a weird feeling. I was in a fight with my mind and didn’t know it. Had I known, I would’ve prepared for the battle.
I didn’t ever go back to the hospital—I didn’t want to be a burden and I didn’t want anyone to know. Some nights I wouldn’t sleep at all, which became a vicious cycle of dealing with these exhausting episodes and being up all night, not being able to recover. Drinking was no longer about having fun, but as a means to temporarily numb my mind. I’d play video games to distract myself. I lost weight I didn’t have to lose, my face was sunk in, my skin was pale, I had no energy, I was sick but felt as though I couldn’t tell anyone, including myself. This went on for a good part of a year. I felt guilty playing music or even talking to my friends and family. I felt like I wasn’t able to be what they wanted me to be. Every conversation hurt even more because I wasn’t able to give anything, I was just treading water with waves crashing over my head, struggling to breathe. One time while visiting a friend, his dad said, “It looks like you have the devil in your eyes.” He wasn’t wrong. But I was still in there, just buried somewhere.
I would have never been able to write this two years ago, or even last year. I was too close to the experience. So besides the passage of time, what’s changed? Well for starters, at a lunch with my Mom a couple of winters ago, she opened up to me about some things in her life and it pushed me to finally say something. We cried and laughed together which I’m sure made the waitress quite uncomfortable. After this conversation, I was able to speak with my Dad and some friends, though perhaps not in this much detail. Talking was a big part of the road to recovery. I began exercising and put on fifteen pounds from lifting weights. I started to feel strong in my body. I became aware of my diet and what I needed more of and what I could cut back on. All of these things were important but there was still something missing. I needed to recalibrate. I needed an aim. I decided to pursue my goal of creating an album of my original songs. I set a date of completion and surrendered to the project, doing whatever it took to get it done. The lessons I learned in doing that were, for lack of a better word, life-changing.
There’s been more talk about mental health lately but I figured I’d share some of these more subtle details that often get overlooked. It’s easy to paint yourself as a victim. And maybe you are a victim. But that’s only step one. You’ve admitted that the world has done you wrong. But it doesn’t owe you anything and it for sure doesn’t end there. You are responsible for your recovery. That’s the next part of the conversation that doesn’t get mentioned enough. You have the controls. And I’m not looking for sympathy here—I’d rather not mention any of this at all. But I wanted to share my experience so that someone who is going through the same thing knows that it’s possible to get through these dark times. Or maybe someone who doesn’t know about these things will be aware if, God forbid, they or someone they love becomes ill.
There are still days where I dip, but I’ve weathered the storm so a little wind is nothing I can’t handle. I am grateful to be able to write, play music, and share my stories with anyone who chooses to listen. I’ve found a way to laugh at it all. We are so small in a world so big, though what we see in our day to day is just a fraction of the entire picture. I realize the importance of setting goals for your life, both big and small, both immediate and distant. If you’re ever feeling an illness like this, know that it is not you. You are above all of this. The brain is an organ, just like the heart or the kidneys and it too can malfunction. Talk to the person you need to talk to, take aim at something, and collect the life experience along the way. Maybe you’ll get a song out of it.
Creativity is the universal trait that spans through every discipline. Without innovators, our art would be depraved and our food would be bland. We would never know how to start fire, or build an electric car, let alone shoot one into space. While knowledge is the passing on of information over generations, creativity is the pairing of said information with a vision. Okay, we get it. Creative people are important. So how do we work with them?
As a songwriter and blogger, I’ve had the chance to be a part of many thoughtful conversations. In September 2017, I co-organized an event entitled, “The Creative Path” where I interviewed three songwriters from Prince Edward Island about creativity in music. I helped transform an abandoned office building into a pop-up music venue with seats, plants, lamps, scent diffusers, and of course, a bar. The artists performed songs in front of an intimate audience and I followed up with questions about their inspiration. What I learned is that you must show up ready to both inspire and be inspired. If you can’t see the light, you must be the light. A great deal of inspiration comes from seeing others fulfill their soul’s purpose. Look to those excelling in your field and learn from them. Learn from those making strides in other fields. The greatest teachers are those who present ideas from the heart with clarity and meaning. They’re the innovators who know the game and know what rules can be broken.
I’ve found it helpful to break the rules within my routine. That being said, I still have a routine. A routine isn’t synonymous with intention, in that you can schedule time to create and have no idea what will come. In his book, The War of Art, Steven Pressfield says, “Someone once asked Somerset Maugham if he wrote on a schedule or only when struck by inspiration. ‘I write only when the inspiration strikes,’ he replied. ‘Fortunately it strikes every morning at nine o’clock sharp.’” In his cheeky response, Maugham sums up perfectly the structure of a professional writer. There is a schedule to follow in regards to efficient, lifelong creation. That being said—don’t bother breaking the rules if you haven’t even showed up to play the game.
Not all creative spaces are created equal. If you’re a leader of a team, understand the different temperaments of your people and encourage them accordingly. For some, it’s a caffeinated group-brainstorming session that gets the ideas flowing, for others it’s walking through the forest without a soul in sight. In her book, Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking, Susan Cain says, “Open-plan offices have been found to reduce productivity and impair memory. They’re associated with high staff turnover. They make people sick, hostile, unmotivated, and insecure.” If you’re dealing with a group, chances are one third of those people are introverted. Open-plan offices will literally suck the life out of them. It can be hard to hear the faint voice through the noise, but remember that the loudest ideas aren’t always the strongest ones.
Creative people see the bigger picture. While their temperament suggests a high level of openness, they often need some direction to create someone else’s vision. That’s not to say that if you work with a creative person you are at the mercy of his undisciplined schedule. Set agreed upon deadlines for tasks. Perhaps you implement a process to measure expectations so creators can ask for extensions before the initial deadline. This relationship built on trust and respect allows for a clear mind and the freedom to explore new ideas. Remember to communicate!
Just like the ocean water meeting land, creativity comes in waves. It’s the day-to-day magic that cures disease, builds roads, and makes your mother cry when she hears her wedding song on her twenty-fifth anniversary. The act of bringing forth something from nothing is an incredible privilege that requires both discipline and openness. We owe a lot of our success to the people we surround ourselves with. Let in the good, and filter out the bad. As Mick Jagger says, “Hey you, get off of my cloud!” Follow the tickle in your soul, and let the work out. That’s your purpose—that’s value.
And remember, whether you’re a creative person or whether you’re working with one:
When we were kids, my grandmother, Nanny May, would take my sister and I to the Palmer Road parish picnic every August. It was an event I looked forward to more than Christmas. We’d load up in the backseat of her blue Toyota Echo as she smoked cigarettes, listened to country music, and sipped Diet Coke. We’d always tell her how much we hated the smell of the smoke so she bought a citrus air freshener to spray every time she’d light one up. Though it was just another layer of chemicals, we were satisfied. This was the same woman who gave me a puff of her cigarette when I was two years old in hopes that I’d never start. It was unconventional but it was effective. My how the world has changed.
She was at peace as she drove west on Highway 2, playing songs from country singers like George Jones, David Allan Coe, and Alan Jackson. I think a big reason why I started singing was because of her and her love for music. Though she never had the chance to hear me sing while she was alive, I know she can hear me now. If I’m ever feeling down or lost I sing to her and those clouds start to clear up, because as she used to say, “It never rains in St. Louis.”
We knew we were close to the picnic when we saw the multicoloured triangle flags hanging from the telephone poles. The first year I went, I saw those flags on the way back home and said, “We saw that at the picnic!” It became the picnic tagline for years to come. You always knew where to find Nanny at the picnic. You could be sure she was parked in her red Coca-Cola folding chair under the tree facing the stage. She didn’t have a lot of money, but she would save up hundreds of dollars every year and change it all for loonies and toonies so all of the grandkids could take handfuls of coins and play the carnival games. That was her way of contributing to the church while seeing the eyes of her grandchildren light up as we filled garbage bags of toys and treats from our winnings. We were floating in pure bliss and all of our childish worries were washed away, to the point where Nanny would have to remind us at least six times eat something because we had forgotten about food altogether.
Aside from the games and food there was a dunk tank, pony rides and live music all day. My great aunt, Evelyn, was famous for singing her comedic renditions of, “The Hat Song” and “Shaving Cream.” We’d sit with Nanny and laugh at how wacky it all was. As I look back on it now, the whole event was simple and beautiful. The warm August air, the sea of folding chairs, the clouds of cigarette smoke, the sound of someone hitting the bullseye and the splash from the dunk tank’s most recent victim, the smell of fresh lobster rolls and pony droppings, and all around good-hearted people—I’ve been to Disney World, but this was better.
I visited her grave last year, behind the Palmer Road church. I don’t often hang around cemeteries but I was in the neighbourhood. I sat down and smiled. What’s death anyway? In my memory, she is alive and well. I can hear her voice as she says my name, I can see her smile as we feed the birds, and I can feel the unconditional love from her hug. She is still my teacher when it comes to following my heart. The people we’ve loved and lost are not only still with us, they are the fabric of who we are. I love you, Nanny. Big as the sky.
I’ll start by saying that I think there are positives to the #metoo movement. I know that some people on the left will glaze over the praise and say I have no business talking about this issue, and I know some people on the right will criticize me for acknowledging a positive side to the movement at all. That’s what happens when you find yourself in the middle of political conversations, straddling that center line, being seen as having no opinions of value because you do not adhere to the rules or scripts of either side.
I am a believer in nuance and in the experience of the individual. I don’t much care for groups or movements. You won’t see me picketing the 1% or for an increased minimum wage or women’s rights or men’s rights. It’s not because I don’t care about these things, I’d just sooner keep to myself. That being said, I’m not opposed to anyone marching in the streets with signs or praising Jesus every Sunday at church. I celebrate your right to do so. I am grateful that, to this day, I have not been oppressed or marginalized in a severe way. Perhaps my hand just hasn’t been forced as I am a white male (gasp), and for that I am neither proud nor ashamed. That’s just the way it is—I can’t change it. Well I suppose I could.
I said there were positives to the #metoo movement. I want to live in a world where rapists are convicted 100% of the time. More than that, I’d like to live in a world with no rape or sexual assault. Unfortunately there is real evil in the world and this common-sensed approach is seen as some unachievable utopia. We can’t control the weather, but we can control our shelter from the weather. In other words, bad people exist, but we can build our case to bring them to justice. It makes me happy to see so many courageous women come forward and testify against scumbags like Bill Cosby or Harvey Weinstein. I realize these are high profile cases, but the same goes for the scum without celebrity status. These women are brave and should be treated with dignity and respect. Unfortunately for these women who tell the truth, there are leeches that suck the blood out of their movement by lying for attention and sympathy.
I think the phrase “believe all women” is dangerous. It’s like using a Class A water extinguisher on every type of fire. It will work great for wood but it will be disastrous for electrical fires. The same goes with the blanket statement, “believe all women.” It works great for the ones telling the truth, but it doesn’t work so well for the ones who are lying. I recently saw a video that made me realize these are nuanced, case-by-case incidents that should be treated as such and not simply lumped into one movement. In the video, a middle-aged white woman was at the counter of a convenience store as a mother and her children, who were black, walked by. One of the kids accidentally brushed the woman as he walked by. The woman then phoned the police, claiming that she had been sexually assaulted by the child. It was disgusting to watch as the child, who had done nothing wrong, cried while this woman accused him of sexual assault while on the phone with the police. I wish I could say this was the first time I’d seen something like this; unfortunately it wasn’t.
With any movement that picks up steam, things can sometimes go off the rails. These leeches should not take away from real accusations, but unfortunately they do distract from the heart of the movement. This is a conversation that doesn’t begin or end here. There is much more to say and do. I recognize that my opinion is formed based on my own experiences and that some people have gone through things that would alter their perception from mine. These different voices are positive. Show tolerance to those with whom you disagree and speak with love. Perhaps we can all learn a thing or two from one another.
As I lug my two guitars, amp, and gear bag back into the house I feel many things. Mostly my shoulders, they are on fire from putting in some good work at the gym yesterday and then farmer carrying gear to and from my car today at Farm Day in the City. Yeah, the shoulders could use some rest. I had a gig last night at Marc’s Lounge that went really well. Some loyal friends stopped by, as did some others that I didn’t know. I had a late night and slept in a bit this morning. I consider 9:30am sleeping in. I showered off the evening’s booze and a few other scents that found their way to my hair and clothes, and then headed for two gigs at Farm Day in the City.
As I began playing, many people stopped by to listen including one little girl who looked as though she was just learning how to stand. She started dancing with feeling, buddy! It was perhaps the cutest thing I’ve ever seen and it made me smile. Music is such an instinctive thing. You don’t have to understand the words or the meaning, although it adds another layer, but you can simply just dance along to the groove and that alone is beautiful. You can’t teach that.
I also saw a dad trying to pick up his kid as he held on to two beers, only to let the child slip from his arms then, in a reflex move, soaked her with the beer as she slid to the ground. The kid was ok but I’m sure she reeked of beer for the rest of the day. Good luck explaining that one to child services haha. I’m sure for them it will be a great story in a few years. For me it was a great story today.
Something else that was funny for me and not so much the people involved was when I was walking past Casa Mia. A man had his dog on a leash and as the waiter came out with two plates of food, the dog made a leap and, in one clean swipe of the tongue, snagged a tomato off of the plate. The waiter was a bit in shock but eventually was able to chuckle, which was good because I was also laughing. The man who owned the dog didn’t even apologize. He just said, “Yeah, he does that sometimes.” … Hey man, show a little remorse, you sociopath.
There was a lady who came up to us as we were setting up to play and asked if we played any Metallica, to which Justyn replied, “In fact, we only play Metallica.”
“Really?” she said, “Do you know any Nickleback too?”
Justyn chimed in again, “Wow, we play only Nickleback when we aren’t playing Metallica!”
She then went on to explain how much she enjoyed Nickleback’s later work when Chad Kroeger had ‘matured.’ It was an exchange equal parts ridiculous and beautiful. I’m curious to know for how long she stuck around until she realized we were not going to play either.
Those were just a few encounters from a beautiful day that I thought were worthy of sharing with you. They made me smile and laugh and I hope you are able to do the same!
It’s quiet as I sit here at my desk, reflecting on the previous night’s decisions and the current day’s redemption. I’ve realized a pattern of thought in which I focus on my age and and wonder how much longer I will be able to justify things like drinking, eating shitty food, lack of sleep. I tend to focus on the things that need improving like my cardiovascular endurance, social interactions, wealth, relationships, and the general state of my room. Well I managed to go for a walk, do some pushups, deposit money, and clean my entire room today so that’s a start. I’ve known these bursts of inspiration to come and go so often to the point where I’m instantly skeptical of their arrival. Hey, over-thinker, quit making up all of this drama and sink into a better reality.
It’s easy to turn our perceived drama into the storyline for our life. I don’t like it though for the simple reason that we’ve taken away the only real power we have. Don’t allow these thoughts to convince you that they are insights. They are nothing more than highlighted text in a book, as if to say, “Hey, fix this shit before you do anything else.” I’m aware of how to improve these things, but there needs to be a reason why in order to turn momentum into ritual.
This evening I sat on the front porch and smelt the wet leaves. I watched the faces in the clouds and listened to the crickets chime as they faded into the fall’s new symphony. You can feel the Earth giving way to something new—something familiar but something new. Does the pilot still see the faces in the clouds now that he passes through them everyday? At last I’ll say, sink into the moment. What a shame it would be to miss the stars.
I was driving recently and I got to a red light. I pulled up behind the car in front of me and a little boy stuck his head out the window as he smiled and waved at me. This instantly brought a smile to my face as I waved back at him. I couldn’t help but smile. In that moment, he showed me who I was. In that moment, he seemed more like me than I was. How do we let ourselves get so far away sometimes?
There is a place within us that we can navigate from. It’s a place that moves freely and sees all things, peripherally and immediate. It carries the big picture yet it is focused on the moment’s task. It’s a loving vibration that is patient, whimsical, and understanding. There is another place that exists and it survives on negative emotion, jealousy, drama, and destruction. It’s a skeptical and worrisome place. Both of these centers are important and serve us for different situations; however if we mistake one of these places for being “the way,” we’ve then added side blinders to our peripheral vision. Both can exist in a useful and healthy manner if built on a foundation of love.
Sometimes we need to demolish old homes. Perhaps the foundation is secure, but we’ve neglected the structure of the build. Mother Nature and Father Time test the integrity of our home. That’s for damn sure. If and when the storm comes, we need a solid foundation to fall back on when all else is ripped away.
I’ve had failures and rejections. I’ve received bad news and have been ill. All of these things have tested my character and my faith. They’ve challenged me to let go as if they were preparation for the next level of understanding. I’ve had moments when I lost sight of who I was, and I’ve had moments where I’ve questioned faith. And when I say faith I don’t mean a rigid set of rules—I’m speaking directly about the source of life. These are dark moments. These are moments that seem never-ending, but all of a sudden a little boy in the car ahead smiles at you and you’re back.
This week’s post comes courtesy of my mother, Heather Séguin.
“Our lives are determined less by our childhood than by the traumatic way we have learned to remember our childhood.” – James Hillman
You are a story. You were born into a story, a family saga that predates your existence. You are an individual, but you’re also part of a greater whole, a family tree that extends its roots into the savannas of Africa.
You are a character, major or minor, in a long-running play. You have inherited all that’s come before you. Your DNA is rich with information. Your body holds secrets and clues which are accessible through intuition and by reaching imaginatively into the past.
You create your memories. You use your imagination to make stories out of fragments of what you remember. Your stories take the place of what really happened, meaning that how you remember things is really more important than what really happened.
Your story reveals what you believe about your own genesis, what you’ve come up with to explain how you came into the world and how you are in the world.
Your story creates your reality, but it’s not always real. It’s your interpretation of the truth, filtered through your perceptions, expectations, hopes and fears. Sometimes your story works. Sometimes it doesn’t.
If it doesn’t, how can you change it?
Change your antagonist – Maybe it’s a person, a condition, a situation or something inside of you. You may not be able to make it disappear, but you can change the role it plays.
Change your location – You don’t have to move across the world, or even across the country, to alter your story. Instead, change things like your mindset.
Change the characters – Which people occupy the most space in your story? What is their influence on you? Switching up your supporting cast or changing how you interact with them can change your story.
Change your theme – You’ve created your theme. Instead of your storyline being “I had a difficult childhood,” maybe it could be “I’ve overcome many challenges.”
Change your genre – Do you see your life as action? Comedy? Tragedy? If you’re tired of drama, for example, look through the prism of another genre.
Remember, you are the storyteller, not the story. You can craft it any way you want.
Peace of the Shore 