Worse Than Death

Posted on March 16, 2016 by clubfredbaja

Robert and Lorraine Marrington dancing

Anniversary season has begun. “This time last year…”

But that is not why I’m writing this. Well, it is and it is not why I am writing this.

Two important movements are happening in North America right now, both of which I feel strongly about. The first is Canada’s Supreme Court ruling that Canadians have the right to end their life with a doctor’s assistance. The second is the ongoing attempt of the anti-choice movement in America to strip away women’s’ rights to safe and legal abortions, brought to a head recently in the US Supreme Court. Both of these important and divisive issues deal with death and choice. What is missing from the conversation, I believe, is life.

“But wait, life is exactly what we’re fighting for!” those opposed to abortion and/or doctor assisted suicide might say.

Yes. And no. What I want to talk about is not the state of being alive. Not a pulse and respiration. I want to talk about what it means to “live”, to do more than exist.

As mentioned, this is the beginning of anniversary season for me. Every day now, I wake up and remember that this time last year I was in Vancouver, driving to Vancouver General Hospital each morning to spend time with my sister in the leukemia ward. Every day now, I wake up and know that the clock is ticking toward dates I would rather forget. Mom’s anniversary will come first—20 years gone. Then Kelly’s, then Dad’s. In the space of two months, I will remember the days I spent by hospital beds, and one-by-one I will count off the deaths of my family.

If I could bring back my sister, alive and healthy, I wouldn’t hesitate. Sell my soul? Where do I sign?

If I could bring back my dad, alive and healthy…I would not. You see, when my dad died on July 25, 2015 that was his second death. His first death happened on June 1, 1996, the moment we stood over my mother’s shrunken body and watched her take her final breaths. That is the day I lost the man I knew as my father.

He tried, in the years after Mom died, to come back to life, but he was lost without her. On the day of Mom’s funeral, he showed me the suit he had chosen. “Does that look okay?” he asked. “Your mother always dressed me.” He would learn to dress himself for important occasions but the larger-than-life man who always had a purpose and a direction, thanks to his wife, was gone forever.

The next two decades my dad spent filling time. Haunted by survivor’s guilt and crippled by a lack of meaning and purpose, he found some peace by spending time with his grandsons, gardening, playing Bingo, baking apple pies. He tried Tai Chi, he volunteered as part of community security program at the local mall, he helped my sister at the community center, but in conversations he would confess to me how empty it all felt.  “I was supposed to go first, you know, not your mother,” he would always say.

As his health declined, Dad’s moods worsened, blackened. Much as a human corpse decays, the spirit and soul that had died in 1996 was crumbling, withering, falling apart.

That is why, on July 25th, when a doctor and a nurse sat me down in the little room so similar to the room I had sat in nineteen years previously, and explained that Dad was not going to get better, that he had specifically requested DNR the moment he had arrived at the hospital, and that only the machines were keeping him alive, I did not hesitate. He had been alive for 81 years but he had stopped living a long time ago.

I will tell you, because I have twice made the decision—once on my own, once in conjunction with my father and sister—that no matter how prepared you are, no matter how pragmatic, no matter how much the patient is suffering, no matter how non-existent the chance of recovery, when you are asked to take away the machines keeping your loved one breathing and their heart beating you will, even if it is merely for a nanosecond, feel like a murderer.  Overpowering that feeling, thankfully, hopefully, will be the knowledge that there are fates worse than death. The knowledge that we are much more than a heartbeat and breath, that the substance of a human transcends the flesh.

My dad had lost his wife and now his daughter, and he was finished with suffering and merely filling time. It was his choice not to continue on and because I loved him I honoured that choice.

Life is greater than the sum of its parts.

Kristene Marrington and Robert Marrington

Dad full of life

*

Western society baffles me sometimes. We have fetishized life. Life at any cost! We have vilified death. Dead bodies must be whisked out of sight, hidden, cleaned up and sanitized. Grief should be a quiet, private affair. Shhh, don’t talk about death!

Life and death, both natural processes, both necessary, but we have judged that only one, life, is sacred.

This fetishizing has extended beyond humans. Even animals must not die. The well-meaning movement toward no-kill animal shelters has led not to every pet finding a happy home for life but in some cases to simply another form of suffering. Humans who choose a vegan or vegetarian diet out of, again, the well-meaning desire not to contribute to the slaughter of animals, sometimes will likewise choose the same diet for their pets without doing their homework or considering that some animals are not omnivores by nature. Tens of thousands of years of dietary evolution and we humans, in all our arrogance, decide that our beliefs about the sacredness of life trump an animal’s nature.

As a veterinary assistant, I helped with the euthanasia of several beloved family pets. Difficult as it often was for the owners (and for us), I recognized the procedure as an act of love. These animals were suffering, sometimes terribly, and all quality of life was gone. In a quick, painless moment, their suffering ended.

As a nature lover, I have seen the cycles of life and death acted out in the wild as they have done since long before the arrival of humans. Animals get old or sick and die, animals kill each other—not always pretty to watch but that’s another flaw in us: the tendency to idealize and soften nature. The natural world can be beautiful but it can also be horrific and grotesque, and it does not give a shit about you, tiny human.

We humans are lucky, imbued as we are with the gift of self-awareness.  At some point in our development, we realize that our time in these “ugly bags of mostly water” is finite, which presents us with the option to choose how we spend that unknown amount of time. Some of us have more choices than others, some of us can only think about survival—food, water, shelter, clothing—but this awareness means that we can think beyond ourselves and work toward a happier future with more choices for our descendants. And that is exactly what humans have done.

Along the way, we have tried to make sense of our existence. We have developed systems of belief, created rules either based on our beliefs or based on our collective understanding of how a safe and productive society should function. We’ve gotten it wrong sometimes, we’ve had our backslides, but, overall, we have made life better, safer, and longer and I believe we will keep on that path.

But something else has happened along the way. We have gotten so good at this life business that we’ve become obsessed with protecting it, extending it, and forcing others to fall into line with our obsession. We have made death monstrous. Suffering? Oh, suffering is awful, of course it is, but nothing is as bad as death!

One of our noblest human qualities, mercy, we will happily sacrifice on the alter of Life.

The right to die is a social, legal, and philosophical minefield but, at the very least, the Canadian Supreme Court has recognized that it is a right humans should have. We understand that humans deserve as least as much kindness as their pets. As noted in The Globe and Mail, February 6, 2015:

In a brief, powerful opening paragraph, the court explained why it was creating a new constitutional right to autonomy over one’s death in some circumstances: Those who are severely and irremediably suffering, whether physically or psychologically, “may be condemned to a life of severe and intolerable suffering” by the government’s absolute ban on assisted dying. “A person facing this prospect has two options: she can take her own life prematurely, often by violent or dangerous means, or she can suffer until she dies from natural causes. The choice is cruel.”

How we will hammer out the details of this new right will likely be an arduous and contentious process, as it should be, but I breathe a sigh of relief that my country understands that “life at any cost” is not mercy, is not love, it is cruel.

*

I can always tell when Fred has had a nightmare about me dying or falling ill because I wake up to a set of arms hugging me closely. The subject of my death terrifies my husband but we do talk about it, for both of us. Neither of us wants a traditional burial. I’d prefer to be placed right into the ground, so that my body can feed the earth and its critters, but I’ll take having my ashes scattered to the ocean if my first choice isn’t possible. We are both organ donors. We both prefer death to unending pain and suffering. We both value quality of life over quantity.

When I say I could die tomorrow and be happy with the life I’ve lived, that is not a throwaway line that I utter with no consideration for reality. I love my life. Of course I want it to go on and on. But if it should end I can say that I have lived fully, I have lived with my whole heart, I have lived the life I chose and it has been an adventure every step of the way. I feel incredibly privileged to be able to say that.

One of the choices Fred and I made about our life together, right from the start, was not to have children. Not long into our relationship, before we were legally married, my husband got “snipped” to relieve me from the hassle of birth control and to ensure that no accidents happened. Had life unfolded differently and had I found myself pregnant, I can state without reservation that I would have had an abortion.

Now, I know that if you are pro-life/anti-choice, then no argument will change your mind. You won’t care how science has disproved the myths of abortion, that it’s been proven by more than one highly respectable scientific/medical body that a fetus is physically incapable of feeling pain until 24-26 weeks, or that the only real difference between an abortion and a miscarriage is choice. Your belief about the sanctity of that life is so deeply embedded in your mind that no amount of logic can pry it out.

That is why I won’t try to convince you. I won’t waste our time.

What I will do is ask you to consider, for even a moment, why you want so desperately for life to follow through from conception to birth?

If the reason stems from a god or a religion, for a moment, set that aside—remember, not everyone believes as you do. If there were no gods, no holy texts or decrees, why would you insist on life at any cost?

Do you look around and see that all children on our planet, in your country, in your city, are loved, wanted and cared for? Have you considered that the lives you “save” you might also doom to years of suffering and pain? That those lives might go on to harm others and continue a cycle of suffering?

How many of you who believe in the sanctity of all life have supported unnecessary wars? How many lives were lost in Iraq, for example, based on what some knew and many suspected was a lie? How many more have suffered and will continue to suffer from that criminal mistake? Where was the sanctity of life then?

And what of the lives of the mothers? It is a fact, no matter how much you want to ignore or dismiss it, that without access to safe and legal abortions there are a number of pregnant women who will harm or kill themselves out of desperation.  Life at all costs has, and will, cost lives.

I keep coming back to suffering because it’s important. In our obsession with life, we have glorified the will to survive. We label survivors as heroes and look down on those who “give up” on life as weak. The choice to fight on and survive in the face of intolerable pain and suffering is no more and no less admirable than the choice to eschew suffering and die. Likewise, there is nothing weak or flawed about a woman who refuses to suffer through an unwanted pregnancy or to give birth to a child that she knows will suffer.

What is worse than a world where all women have reasonable access to safe and legal abortions?

A world where victims of rape or incest are forced to carry and give birth to the product of that crime. A world where women are forced to carry to term babies with severe and sometimes fatal birth defects. A world where women live in fear of being held hostage by their own body. A world where women risk their own lives to end unwanted pregnancies. A world where we ignore scientific evidence and the rights of women in order to impose our beliefs. A world where we ensure poor women remained locked in abusive relationships by making them dependent through their children.

A world where it is mandated that suffering is preferable to death.

*

Death and I are on a first name basis. I’ve spent the better part of past year getting to know my “enemy”. I’ve never been particularly scared of Death. I have always lived my life with the understanding that my life will end someday and the best I can do is suck the joy out of every possible moment. But, in true movie villain fashion, Death knew that if he couldn’t scare me with threats against me, he would go after the people I cared about.

The tactic worked. For now, at least. I’m still down, still bloody, still gasping for breath and bandaging my wounds.

With each anniversary landmark that approaches, I know I’ll take another kick to the gut, another sucker punch to the face. But, like every good movie hero, I will prevail because I have learned my enemy’s weakness. What is it?

Death is not the worst fate. Death is not the toughest bad guy. There are far badder bad guys out there.

I will defeat Death not by living forever but by filling however many days that remain to me with love, with meaning, with purpose, with joy, with empathy, with strength, and with mercy.

More than that, though, I defeat Death by embracing it, by acknowledging that it is as sacred and as natural as life. Life is not always the hero of the story; Death is not always the villain.

As I begin this anniversary season, as odd as it may sound, I want to offer thanks to those who continue to fight for the right to end life with dignity and with mercy. You remind me of what is good in humanity, and why it is so wonderful not to merely exist but to live.

Kelly Collins and Kristene Perron

Me and Kelly, really living

Posted in Family & Children, Grief and Mourning, Health and wellness, Love, News and politics, Uncategorized, Women's Issues | Tagged , , , , | Leave a comment

AWKWARD

Posted on March 1, 2016 by clubfredbaja

Dork 2

In Madame Porges French class, in Burnsview Jr. High, I once eavesdropped on a conversation about The Who. The conversation was not conducted en français, as it really should have been, but the participants were two of the cool kids and thus it was infinitely more interesting to me than the belle vue that Henri and his wife were enjoying.

I was not one of the cool kids. I knew nothing about The Who, except that they were a band. I desperately wanted to be one of the cool kids.

When a gap opened in the conversation and Madame Porges was adequately distracted, I said to the cool kids, “I can get front row tickets to The Who”.

I said this in 1984. Those of you who are Who fans, may see where this is heading.

“Oh yeah?” said Cool Kid #1. “You can get tickets to The Who?”

I had their attention, I was in! Play it cool, Kristene.

“Yeah, my mom works for Eatons and all their full time employees can get up to four tickets for concerts and plays–any seats they want–one day before they go on sale for everyone else. If you guys want tickets, I can get them.”

Oh baby, this was it. I was going to be so popular!

Cool Kid #2 started to snicker. “So you like The Who?”

“I love them!” I said.

“And you don’t know they broke up?” Cool Kid #1 said.

“Oh… right…um, yeah, I totally forgot,” I said.

The Cool Kids laughed. I shrunk down to the size of mon stylo, while turning one hundred shades of red.

Embarrassment was a frequent companion of mine growing up. I know now that I was not alone, but it sure felt like it at the time. Ironically, on the stage, in front of a crowd focused entirely on me and my goofy antics, I was fine. Nothing I said and did in the spotlight made me feel anything but joyous. One-on-one, was a much different story.

I’m thinking about this because I thought I’d outgrown embarrassment. Not that I don’t make the occasional gaffe or social misstep, I do, but because I have learned to like myself and stop seeking the approval of others. This “not giving of fucks” has led to increased confidence and overall happiness.

But then it happened.

I googled my name. Not a vanity search (sure Kristene, sure). I was actually searching for something specific and the best I way I knew to track it down was through my name. Long story, you just have to trust me on this one. Deal?

Let’s go back in a time again, shall we?

Prior to the blog incarnation of these Coconut Chronicles, I did not spend much time on the internet. A bit of research here and there, some interaction on a Baja discussion board, the occasional review posted on Trip Advisor, that was about it. This is a long way of saying that I am not the most technologically savvy person out there. In 2007, we moved to Aitutaki in the Cook Islands, where “high speed” internet was only marginally faster than sending carrier pigeons. Another two years of minimal online engagement. Back in Canada in 2010, Josh and I spent every free moment writing the rough drafts of what would become Warpworld, through email exchanges—that was my life for almost two years.

It wasn’t until the Josh and I made the decision to indie publish that I dove into the online world. Like most newbies, I blundered my way through, offending and annoying people along way as I struggled to understand the many sub-cultures of the interwebz. This wasn’t about making friends (although that did happen), this was about being a diligent business person who at least appeared to know what she was doing (often I did not know, at all).

Most of my mistakes triggered only a momentary, inward cringe and an inaudible “Ugh” from yours truly. Hey, learning is tough. But one evening, exhausted and far from being on my A game—closer to my Q game or perhaps even my W game –I decided to write a comment on an author’s blog post that I had found inspiring. The comment was innocuous and hardly noteworthy but the comment system was new to me. All the other commenters had avatars. I wanted to have an avatar. I wanted to look as if I knew what I was doing.

At that time, the author photo I had been using on my blog was one of me in our “front yard” in Aitutaki. The “yard” was our beautiful white sand beach and the photo had been taken on one of those dream-like days where the water was almost too blue and calm to believe. The photo was taken from behind me, as I sat in my bikini, (AKA my work uniform) and gazed out at the lagoon. I love that photo because it puts me right back on that beach, in the sun, without a care in the world. I don’t see it as a sexual photo because bathing suits, as mentioned, were just what we wore every day during the so-hot-your-spine-melts summers in the South Pacific.

That was the photo I would use for my avatar!

Problem: I had no idea how to create my avatar on this comment platform. Half awake, I skimmed through a bunch of text and buttons, saw a camera icon, and clicked. There was no preview function and so I assumed I’d been successful and hit “enter”.

The photo did not come up as my avatar. My avatar remained a vague outline of a head. The photo did come up at the bottom of my comment. So, at the end of my comment, apropos to nothing, I’d posted a photo of myself in a bikini on a beach. That’s…awkward.

Delete. I would delete the whole thing!

Nope. The comment platform offered me no option to delete the photo or the comment.

I stared at it.

I tried to imagine what other people would think when they saw it.

I tried to imagine what the blog’s author would think when he saw it.

Would he think I was some crazy woman trying to solicit or stalk him? Would he think I was one of those porn spammers?

Shrinking, shrinking, shrinking…turning red.

Oh man, this was worse than my awful comment about The Who. This was permanent! And public!

At this point, all I could do was talk myself down. “No one reading this blog knows you. They will never know you. Stop making yourself crazy. Go to bed, stupid!”

It gets worse.

You see, less than two years later, I found myself at a literary event and I looked up and who did I see? Yep. The author. At one point I actually came face-to-face with him and it was everything I could do not to shout: “I’m not a stalker! I didn’t know how to make an avatar! That photo is not supposed to be sexual! I lived on a tropical island and it was really hot! I’m married! I’m not a porn person! Your stupid, confusing comment platform wouldn’t let me delete it!”

I don’t know if he recognized my name (thankfully you cannot see my face in the photo) or, if he did, he simply chose to politely not mention the photo. The photo which is still out there.

Yes, while conducting my non-vanity Google search, I ran smack into the embarrassing photo again. It sits there in the comment section, reminding me, “You haven’t come a long way, baby. You are still a dork.”

Even though I realized how small and irrelevant my tiny boo-boo was in the big picture, even though I have done things far more embarrassing than that, the physical reaction, the painful embarassment was just as strong, years later. So why I am I telling the world about this? Well, one of my online acquaintances had a bit of an “oops” moment on social media yesterday and was feeling all those awful feelings that I know so well. I wanted to reach through the computer and hug her and tell her we all have those moments now and then, that she didn’t do anything wrong.

I have a love/hate relationship with the internet and social media. My online interactions and friendships bring me untold joy, but also a good share of anxiety. For me, there is a constant struggle to balance my desire to be kind, and funny, and interesting with my desire to be genuine and true to the fires that burn in my soul. I always question my motives before I share anything publicly and try to weigh the pluses and minuses of putting myself out there—a hard learned lesson—and I also try not to pounce on “wrongdoers”, check my facts, join in a shame-fest, or say anything that could hurt me professionally. But, being human, I make mistakes.

I am lucky. My mistakes have not brought death or rape threats, I haven’t been doxxed or bullied, and I have not fallen victim to the dark side of the internet.

I am lucky.

I guess this is a very long way of saying: be kind.

That weird, stalker woman who posted a photo of herself in a bikini on your blog post for no discernible reason? Maybe she just didn’t know which buttons to click to make an avatar. That dorky girl in French class who bragged about getting tickets to a concert for a band who had broken up? Maybe she really wanted you to like her and just didn’t have the social skills to introduce herself like a normal person.

Be kind to those people.

We all make mistakes.

Be kind to yourself.

Posted in Friends, Life | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

18 Things No One Told Me About Being an Adult

Posted on February 25, 2016 by clubfredbaja

Kris eats spagetti

I don’t know if this is a list of things I wish someone had told me when I was young or if people told me these things and I didn’t listen.

Or maybe it’s a list of things about being an adult that I’m really quite glad no one told me when I was young and/or I didn’t listen to when they told me.

  1. Adult life contains a lot of paperwork. Like…A LOT. More than anyone ever wants. Short of running off into the woods to live like a hermit, there is no escape from this.
  2. There is no “right” way to do anything.
  3. Even though there is no “right” way to do anything, there are expected ways to do things and, if you mess them up, sometimes your mistake can follow you through the rest of your life. See also: paperwork, adult life contains a lot of.
  4. Your body will break down in ways you can’t even imagine. Remember that time you complained that your back was sore when you were twenty-one? HA HA HA HA HA AHAHAHAHA!
  5. You will grow up to bitch about the younger generation just like the older generation bitched about your generation. (They will resent it as much as you did).
  6. You will forget all about how much it sucked to be told what to eat, when to go to bed, what to wear, and where you could and could not go when you were a kid. You will only remember all that time you had to play and goof off and that there was no paperwork.
  7. Every time you think you have things figured out, some crazy thing will happen that will strip you of your certainty.
  8. That thing you absolutely MUST see/do/buy/experience or you will DIE? Nah, you’ll be okay.
  9. Sleep is awesome!
  10. Whatever you do, whichever road you choose, some people will think you are smart and some people will think you’re an idiot. Sometimes they will all be right at the same time.
  11. You will watch people of minimal skill and less talent succeed wildly. You will watch brilliant people struggle and fail. Life, honestly and truly, is not fair.
  12. Kindness is rarely a bad idea.
  13. Sometimes the only way to be kind in the big picture requires that you hurt someone in the small picture.
  14. The perfect people who seem to have it all and know exactly what they are doing…don’t. Everyone has a weakness you can’t see, a darkness you may never know, or a secret that haunts them. Perfect is a lie.
  15. Working hard at something you love is satisfying right down to the core of your soul, even if you never make a dime at it. But debt can squash your soul like a bug.
  16. At some point, it stops being your parents’ fault and starts being yours. That point comes much earlier than you think it does.
  17. Everything that matters most is inside you.
  18. You need to floss more often.
Posted in General, Health and wellness, Life | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

Sins of the Grandfather

Posted on February 19, 2016 by clubfredbaja

Dorothy Mason nee Armstrong and Husband

My Grandmother, on my mother’s side, lived with me for all of my childhood and to this day I do not know my grandfather’s name. While organizing some of the boxes I kept from my Dad’s place, I came across this photo of “Gram” on her wedding day. For the first time, it struck me that not only had I never met the man standing next to her but that I also did not even know his name or practically any detail about him, except that he was a drunk and a bully.

I don’t know all that much about my Gram, either, considering the amount of time I spent with her. I certainly never knew her as the graceful, carefree beauty in that photo.

Gram moved in with us, I believe, when I was a baby. I say believe because I have no memory of her arrival. In my reality, it was normal for grandmothers to live in the bedroom next door to yours because that is all I remember from as far back as I can remember. In fact, I took Gram’s presence so much for granted that even my husband was shocked when, after more than seventeen years together, I made an offhand comment about my childhood living situation. “I didn’t know she lived with you,” he said. I realized then that I had never told him because, to me, it seemed like something everyone should just know.

And because Gram had always been in the bedroom next door, it never occurred to me, as a child, to ask why she lived there, just as it never occurred to me to ask what happened to her husband, my grandfather.

One day, I think I was in my early teens, the phone rang, Dad answered, then he called for Gram. She came to the receiver, listened a while, made a few comments, and then hung up. Her husband, she informed us, without a trace of emotion, was dead.

That was the only time I remember Gram ever talking about him.

*

“Kristene! Are there boys down there?”

This was a favourite joke between my friends and me during our teen years. Gram, it was well known, did not like boys and she particularly did not like them in our rec room, with me. Unfortunately for Gram, I’d always counted a good number of boys among my close friends. I’m sure if it weren’t for her bent and arthritic body, she would have come downstairs with a broom to chase away any boys who dared come near me.Instead, she had to suffice with calling down from the top of the stairs.

The Gram I grew up with had a dowager’s hump, fingers bent at painful angles, and a shuffling gait. She chain smoked Number 7 cigarettes, watched TV in her room, cooked our dinners and washed our clothes. And, until I discovered that I liked boys as more than just people you ride bikes and climb trees with, I loved her like my best friend.

Gram

Gram, as I remember her best

Mom and Dad both worked full time, my sister Kelly was at school or out with friends, and so Gram filled the role of babysitter, housekeeper and cook in our house. Her room was plain—a bed, a TV, two dressers, a couple of pictures on the wall—but to me it was a wonderland. Sometimes she would let me “sleep over” and we’d play cards and stay up late to watch Johnny Carson. When I was very small, she let me pretend her sturdy clothes hamper was a horse and I’d climb on top, grab the big brass handle on one side, and rock that hamper until I was galloping. On rare occasions, she’d get dressed up, put on lipstick and a nice coat, and we’d take a taxi to the mall. She loved to tell the story of the time she took me out for lunch, when I was six, and when the waitress asked me what I’d like to drink I’d said, “Apple juice, on the rocks.”

I knew she argued with Mom, and sometimes with Kelly (probably about boys), and that she was uncomfortable around my dad (and all men), for reasons I never understood, but to me Gram was perfect. I have this beautiful picture in my mind of the two of us, drinking tea at the kitchen table, and her listening patiently and intently as I told story after story after story.

I wish that was the only picture I had of her but as soon as hormones and boys became a part of my life the friendship ended and never really recovered. I didn’t know her aggressive nagging was fear. I didn’t know she was still my best friend, trying her damnedest, in her withered body, to protect the little girl she loved so dearly. I resented her interference as I stumbled my way to adulthood, and I was mean to her in the way that only teen girls can be.

*

Mom rarely talked about her childhood and my own childhood was so sheltered and safe that I never considered her life could have been any different.

My relationship with Mom was never quite as black and white as it was with Gram. From what I know now, Mom likely suffered from some form of depression and anxiety. There was a period of agoraphobia that I don’t remember, along with low self-esteem, body issues, and passive-aggressiveness. Mom had it all. She was the queen of the silent treatment and I eventually dubbed her the head travel agent for Guilt Trips International. Between her moods and Gram’s ridiculous level of policing, my teen years convinced me that my only hope for sanity was to get out of that house just as quickly as I could.

And I did.

One of my best childhood friends told me, when we were adults, that her brother predicted that my over-sheltered home life would turn me into a wild girl the moment I was free. He was right.

Our late teens and twenties are rarely a time for introspection and I was definitely no exception. I went full speed ahead, determined to do everything and go everywhere, rules and my own well-being be damned. If I’d stopped and examined my behaviour, if I’d taken the time to really talk with my mom and my Gram, I would have seen their history shining through in every bad decision I made.

*

When Mom was diagnosed with cancer, she started to take stock of her life for the first time. Sometimes, out of the blue, she would share pieces of her past with me.

She’d always openly hated my proclivity for “vintage” clothing. Having grown up poor, she explained, she wanted her kids to never be stuck in second-hand clothes, as she had been.

But she had not just grown up poor, she had grown up in fear. Her father was a drunk, a mean drunk. According to Mom, most of his sadism had been directed at Gram. One of the incidents she remembered was a time Gram had badly sprained her ankle. The doctor had ordered her to keep her foot elevated and so Gram sat in a chair with her foot on a stool. Her husband, drunk and angry, yanked the stool out from under her and sent the injured foot crashing to the floor. She remembered Gram wailing in pain and her dad laughing.

That was one incident out of what I’m sure were many that Mom tried hard to forget. But she did not forget the times Gram would grab her and her sister and run, to escape a drunken rage. Cold, terrifying nights spent huddled and hiding behind a dumpster. That was my mother’s childhood.

Last year, during the long hours I sat with Kelly in the leukemia ward, I asked her if she had ever met our grandfather or if she remembered anything about him. She said she remembered one night, Gram hiding in Mom and Dad’s house while our grandfather yelled and screamed outside the locked door, hurling threats and insults. Kelly remembered being scared to death that he would get inside.

My mom was a child when Gram divorced her husband. She was called into court at the age of thirteen and had to sit in front of a judge and her two parents and choose which parent she wanted to live with. Despite everything he had done, she was overwhelmed with guilt when forced to tell her father that she was going to live with her mother. There were other details about the divorce that I only vaguely recall, something my grandfather did to set up Gram and make sure that she never received a dime of financial support.

A beautiful young woman marries a handsome young man. Instead of living happily ever after, the young man turns out to be broken, a monster no doubt suffering from demons of his own. At his hands, his young wife becomes a cowering, fearful refugee and, later, a bitter old woman. His daughters grow up in fear, grow up in guilt, grow up with the knowledge that marriage is a dangerous business and men are not completely to be trusted.

And their daughters?

I can’t speak for my cousins but I know my sister and I—even with our safe suburban home and two parents that loved us—grew up under the lingering shadow of a grandfather we didn’t know. Our mother’s psychological damage affected us in ways we spent years—not always successfully—trying to undo. Even today I battle the instinct to mimic the bad behaviour I learned from my mother and grandmother—low self-esteem, passive aggressiveness, guilt. I’ve made mistakes because of those bad behaviours; some that hurt people I loved.

The actions of one man have rippled through three generations. A man whose name I do not even know helped shape some of the worst parts of me.

*

Gram, Wally, Ness

(L to R) Gram, brother-in-law Wally, sister Ness

My Gram’s name was Dorothy Mason, nee Armstrong. She had a sister, Evelyn, who we all called Ness, and her ancestors came from the Isle of Skye, in Scotland.

Gram loved Mackintosh’s toffee and made delicious Scotch Broth. For a time, she worked in a factory in Vancouver for a peanut butter company. Kelly said at Christmas Gram would come home from the factory with a paper bag full of hot roasted cashews and the smell was heavenly.

Gram black and white

Gram, far back, left, at the peanut butter factory

She watched a lot of TV in her later years and became a huge fan of WWF wrestling. From my room, I could hear her squeal with excitement whenever her favourite wrestler, Jake the Snake, would take his famous python out of the bag to torment his foes. One week, when my parents were out of town, Gram and I ate pancakes every night for dinner and we never told anyone. After Gram had cataract surgery, she told me she was amazed to discover the world was not all yellow and we both laughed. Whenever I did something goofy, which was often since I was the family ham, Gram loved to say, “You’re nutty as a fruitcake!”

I do not know my grandfather’s name and I hope I never do. He and his demons are dead, the damage is done. Good riddance.

I wrote this Coconut Chronicle post because I want some recorded memory of my Gram’s suffering and her joy. I did not do well by her at the end, not nearly as well as she deserved. I don’t want to remember the times I found her weeping, lonely and frustrated at her isolation, playing endless hands of solitaire while the family around her ignored her. How many ways I could have brightened her days if I had not been so consumed with the tiny sphere of drama that was my young life.

I can only hope that I live every day in a way that honours the spirit of the beautiful young woman with the flower corsage, unbroken, happy, with her whole life ahead of her.

 

Me, Mom, Gram

Mom, Gram and me

The past is written but may we all consider that our words and actions here and now can last for years and shape the lives of people generations down the road. People who do not even know our name.

I love you, Gram.

Posted in Family & Children, Grief and Mourning, Love, Women's Issues | Tagged , , | 1 Comment

Our Story

Posted on February 16, 2016 by clubfredbaja

Peace Arch border

My swirling thoughts have been swirly-er than usual lately. Traveling through the lands to the south of my lovely-yet-frigid homeland always puts me in the path of people with different—sometimes wildly different—perspectives and views than mine. For all our similarities, and they are numerous, Americans and Canadians are not twins separated only by an imaginary line and use of the superfluous U.

Because I am a writer, I try to keep an open mind. Not so open that my brain falls out, mind you, but open enough to allow that maybe my opinions and beliefs aren’t always right. A reader can sense—or at least this reader can—when a writer doesn’t really know or care about the characters in their story. If a writer doesn’t care about their characters, the reader won’t care about them either. But caring comes from knowing, understanding, and even empathizing.

The best villains aren’t two dimensional stereotypes, twisting black mustaches and laughing evil laughs. The best villains have convictions and beliefs that are as strong, or stronger, than that of the hero’s. Just as we enjoy our heroes with some flaws that make them as human as we are, we also appreciate villains that have a spark of honour to elevate them above the rank of common thug. In short, the best fiction reflects the truth that our world and the people in it are not black and white, and there are rarely easy answers.

In the fictional world Josh and I created for our Warpworld series, we have an entire race of people that are, in the big picture, detestable beings. Just about anyone could argue that it would be in the universe’s best interest to erase them from time and space, and I couldn’t disagree. Our job, then, is to ignore the big picture, to look closely at why this race became what they are, and to dig for some goodness, some reason to care about at least a few of them. This is where an open mind is an asset—when you bring it to the blank page.

Keeping that open mind gets complicated in the flesh and blood world. When the stakes are real, the ability to empathize can vaporize. Instead of digging for understanding, I want to make my case, I want my perspective to be heard and understood. Nowhere does this seem to manifest itself more enthusiastically than in the USA.

Geographically, Canada’s closest neighbour is the United States of American. Ideologically, we are more aligned with large swathes of Europe and parts of the world, such as New Zealand, with a strong British influence.

Discussions around the dinner table with our American friends and family often highlight the wide gap between our cultures. Health care, guns, immigration, LGBTQ rights, government regulation, abortion, religion, multiculturalism, education, military, taxes, etc, the list of issues on which we differ is long.

During these kinds of conversations, when there is always the danger of hurting or alienating someone I care about, I must constantly remind myself that no matter how similar we look and sound, we are two different cultures. Our perspectives were formed under different conditions. Most of what we—universal “we”—believe is not based in logic but in what we grew up in, what we know, what we see most often.

Most Canadians are puzzled by US gun culture and the fierce devotion to the second amendment because that’s not what we have been exposed to. I grew up in a household without any guns and so did most of my friends. I’ve shot guns, and have enjoyed the experience, but I don’t feel the need to own such a weapon. The majority of Canadians prefer a mostly-gunless society and feel safer knowing that the people around us are not armed. That’s our collective cultural experience.

Most Americans seem baffled by Canadian willingness to pay such high taxes and allow government control over much of our lives. They harbour a deep distrust of government (hence that second amendment) and a strong sense of independence. They like the idea of programs like universal healthcare but doubt that their government has the competence to run such a system fairly and efficiently, (and there’s plenty of history to back up this doubt). My guess is that they see Canadians as far too passive when it comes to our government. That’s their collective cultural experience.

Two examples. Both of these topics came up in conversation more than once during my recent time south. Both ended with each “side” walking away unchanged in their belief but still friends.

But every one of these discussions leaves me frustrated with my inability to change minds. Sometimes it is so clear to me that the other person is wrong, that their prejudices and ignorance are doing the talking. If only I had been more persuasive! If only I’d had some evidence close at hand to show how right I am! Mind…closed.

This is where the swirly thoughts begin.

I have asked myself, after these discussions, which is worse: To be right and not stand up more strongly for what I believe or to be wrong and not be open to new ideas and different ways of thinking?

I have asked myself if the things I believe are logical or merely the result of cultural conditioning?

I have asked myself if I am betraying one group of people I care about by respecting a different and opposing group of people I care about?

I have asked myself if it’s worth even trying to tackle the issues that separate our cultures.

I have asked myself (because I am Canadian), if it’s rude to speak honestly about my beliefs in the homes of gracious hosts with opposing beliefs?

No answers have come. The swirly thoughts continue to swirl. But I have a gut feeling, pure instinct, that it is better to talk, better to shine a light on our differences than to let our prejudices and enmity fester under the dark cloak of civility.

At the Peace Arch Border crossing between British Columbia and Washington state, there is a monument with an inscription above a set of symbolic iron gates. “May these gates never be closed”. I cannot say for certain but I believe that one of the means by which we keep them open is through dialogue between our nations—on the political stage and around the dinner table.

I am only one person but I am a writer. The story I choose to tell for my life is one of honest but respectful discourse. I want to care about the people in my story and so I choose to listen and strive to understand them all. Yes, even the villains. I struggle to come to the start of each day as I come to the blank page, with an open mind.

How will our story end? I guess that’s up to all of us.

Posted in Friends, News and politics, On Scribbling, Travel, USA | Tagged , , , | 5 Comments

Panic in the Control Room

Posted on February 5, 2016 by clubfredbaja
Kristene Perrin in Joshua Tree National Park

Just another “normal” day on the never-ending journey

February 2, 2016

Today I’m writing from the base of Mount Shasta, in California, in the world’s most comfortable chair, looking out over a trout pond ringed by patches of snow and sturdy pines. This is the second-to-last stop on our almost six week journey. The setting is idyllic, silent, and the perfect place for me to poke and prod at life’s latest revelation.

I am recovering from trauma. I am not sure why it has only now occurred to me that this is what I am doing but the realization smacked me in the cranium as we pulled out of Petaluma, California this morning.

Something has been bothering me these six weeks, some feeling that refused to name itself, hovering at my elbow like an old acquaintance whose name you should know but, embarrassingly, you can’t remember. The feeling was most prevalent when I spoke to friends and family who had not heard the sad story of my unfortunate spring and summer. I want them to know the story of the loss of my father and sister for the same reasons you would want your dear friends and family to know if you had married, given birth, launched a new business or experienced any other massive, life changing event.

The problem is this: I want them to know the story but I don’t want to tell it. I don’t want to tell it because of “the look”. Reflected in my listeners’ eyes I see all the horror and sadness that I have lived through, clawed my way back from, and still work every day to ignore so that I can move forward. I don’t want to tell the story because I fought to get the point where I could tell it without feeling it and now what will they think when I speak those words dry-eyed and emotionless?

But it was not only those storytelling moments that felt off, wrong, uncomfortable. Looking back at all the times when the nameless feeling nudged my elbow, a pattern appears. The pattern is the aftermath of trauma.

How can I describe this state? The aftermath? The recovery?

Imagine a room inside your mind, a control room. Mine resembles the bridge of the Enterprise—no surprise, I am sure. Whatever your particular control room looks like, it is largely automated. A happy event occurs, a switch flips, you smile, you laugh, warmth rises in your stomach. A sad event occurs, another switch flips, your stomach tightens, your mouth twitches, perhaps you cry. No matter how big or small, your control room tells your body how to react to the millions of stimuli you encounter every day. And, like any system, there are glitches in your control room, which is why you also have a crew.

Your control room crew keeps an eye on the buttons and switches and blinking lights. They are ready to step in if you start to laugh at a funeral. They might not be able to stop you from laughing (funny things happen at funerals now and then), but they can troubleshoot, modulate your volume, force you to excuse yourself if necessary.

Trauma is when armed attackers burst into your control room and start shooting. Your brave crew do all they can to protect the precious system, even sacrificing their lives. Sometimes a few crew members manage to survive, kill off the enemy, and get you back online with barely a hiccup. Other times, the trauma forces are too well-armed and powerful and the entire control crew is slaughtered. Sometimes the forces of trauma damage the control systems. In the worst cases, they damage the systems beyond all repair.

That is trauma. The aftermath of trauma is what happens inside your control room in the weeks and months after the attack.

For me, the control room crew was lost but the system suffered only minor damage. Since the attack, repairs have been made but the crew that oversees the automated system has yet to be replaced. Because of this, glitches pop up without anyone to correct them. A happy event occurs, sometimes the right switch flips, sometimes the wrong switch flips, and sometimes no switch flips. Instead of laughter and warmth I feel nothing, or I feel anxious, scared, sad, confused, angry. A warning light flashes. Emergency! Panic! But there is no one in the control room. All I can do is wait for the glitch to pass.

This is the aftermath of trauma: glitches in the system.

For the past six weeks I have swung between feeling almost myself again and feeling as if I am an alien inhabiting a human body. I have played tennis, I have attended parties, I have worked on the latest incarnation of the Warpworld manuscript, I have gone bird watching, I have lunched with old friends, I have read books to small children, I have picked oranges, I have completed a freelance contract, I have watched movies, I have had sex with my husband, I have soaked in hot tubs, I have worn myself out at spin classes, I have written blog posts, I have read and read and read, I have had meaningful conversations and silly belly laughs, I have drastically curtailed my consumption of alcohol, I have driven a Tesla, I have walked dogs, I have laid in the sun, I have been woken up by an earthquake. I have done all these things with renewed vigor and hope. But I have also suffered through any number of glitches—suddenly crying behind my sunglasses as I was otherwise happily reading a book in the sun; waking up at 2am filled with dread and anxiety for no reason, panic so intense it takes my breath away; eating a deliciously ripe orange, fresh off the tree and being washed over with homesickness even though I know home is cold and grey and wet and citrus-less.

Looking back, it all makes sense. In the moment, it was deeply unsettling.

Of course I am recovering from trauma. Who wouldn’t be after watching the two remaining members of their family die in a span of less than seventy days? Not to mention packing up and moving away from the city that has been home base for the better part of six years. All the determination and self-generated RAWR! in the world cannot change the facts. I guess this means I am in the Denial phase of the stages of grief?

Over the past six weeks, so many ideas for Coconut Chronicle posts came to me. Travel always has that effect, igniting the creative core of my brain. And yet, for some reason, most of those ideas never made it to the page. Only today, when I finally understood that I was recovering from trauma did my lack of follow-through make sense. This is the space where I come to share what matters to me. As much I’ve fought it, as much as I’ve struggled to move forward, I am still here, in my grief, all these months later. Yes, I’ve moved but not out of grief, only into the next stage of it.

What matters to me most right now is honesty. I am fighting all my instincts to run. I am determined to stop, look around, and report what it is like to exist in all these stages, no matter how repetitive or depressing the truth may be. And what I have to report at this moment is that I feel stuck. I don’t want to tell the story because I have been telling the same story over and over and over. I worry that this is the story that will forever define me. The story doesn’t change and I am stuck here in each iteration of grief, re-telling it from a new point of view. I cannot backspace or delete and write a new ending. There’s no one in the control room; I can’t stop the glitches.

For all the fun I had on this latest journey—and I did have fun, believe me—I am eager to return home. Something about the blandness of routine is appealing right now. I confess that the usual burst of inspiration that my road trips trigger did not come. I rarely even picked up the camera. Nothing moved me to chronicle my adventure because it did not feel like an adventure. It felt like fakery—pretend this is just another normal winter road trip and it will be so. But it was not so.

More glitches.

I have sent out an S.O.S, a desperate plea for a new control room crew. Until they answer my call, here I am, telling the story I don’t want to tell and wondering how long it will be before everyone stops listening. Wondering when I will stop pretending to be me and just…be.

Kristene Perron in cowboy hat

Just trying to be me in southern California

Posted in Grief and Mourning, Health and wellness, Life, Travel, Uncategorized, USA | Tagged , , , | 2 Comments

The Future is Insane!

Posted on January 22, 2016 by clubfredbaja

Fast cars don’t impress me. Yeah, I like driving them and I certainly wasn’t complaining while zooming around the track at 100mph at the Bondurant School of High Performance Driving, but you won’t find me ogling a Lamborghini or a Ferrari as they drive by. Give me an old Crown Vic that I can slide around in the rain, or, better yet, a Honda XR250 dirtbike, and I’m a happy gal. If I’m honest, modern automobiles, in general, just don’t do it for me.

“They all look the same now,” I said to Prez, as we walked down the ever-so-fashionable El Paseo Drive recently. The rows of cars on this upscale piece of retail real estate are luxurious but homogeneous.

They really do look alike to me. Car aficionados will cringe when I tell them that nowadays I can’t tell the difference between a Mercedes and a Hyundai. Aerodynamics and engineering have brought automotive manufacturing to a place where the only noticeable differences are between sports car vs truck vs SUV, not between models of the same class.

With one exception.

If you, like me, start feeling the yawns coming on when “car talk” begins, stick with me here. I’m not going to talk about a car; I’m going to talk about the future.

I can’t remember when I first heard about Elon Musk’s baby, the Tesla, but I do remember there being some hype around it. I also recall that the first model, the Tesla Roadster, was exorbitantly expensive, which kept it off my radar because starving writer.

I could list a bunch of boring facts and figures about the car but you can visit the Tesla website for that stuff. Instead, how about all the cool, fun stuff?

How would I know about the cool, fun stuff in a Tesla?

Enter, Tesla Steve.

Steve Varon and his Tesla

Tesla Steve with his pride and joy.

During our stay at Casa Curmudgeon, at the Deep Canyon Tennis Club in Palm Desert, Prez and I mentioned to our housemates that we had stumbled into a Tesla showroom and how dazzled we were by the model on display.

“Oh, you should meet Tesla Steve. He’d be happy to take you for a ride!” Meg said.

Tesla Steve, aka Steve Varon, is a fellow resident of this little tennis enclave and, as the nickname suggests, a happy Tesla owner. Long story short-ish, Prez tracked him down and made introductions. Tesla Steve, who could also be called Really Friendly Generous and Fun Steve, offered me a chance to ride in and drive his Tesla and I was all over that like a grizzly on Leonardo DiCaprio.

We met at his outside garage where he showed me the first of many Super Cool Tesla Things: the “summon” feature.

“Summon” is a recent upgrade. (Yes, Tesla automatically and wirelessly upgrades your car with the latest features, how cool is that?) Essentially, this feature acts as a driverless valet. As I watched, Steve pressed a button on his fob and seconds later—with us standing outside the car—the Tesla rolled slowly out of its parking stall. Steve pushed the button again. The Tesla rolled back in.

Tesla summon feature

Come on out, little Tesla!

As the owner of a big truck, who is constantly forced to play the “how skinny can I make myself” game in parking lots to avoid smacking other vehicles with her door, I am in deep envy of the “summon” feature.

We jumped in the car and Steve took the wheel. Next Super Cool Tesla Thing? The huge, I mean GIANT, screen in the center of the dash. This touch screen can do anything except pilot a Space X rocket ship, though that will probably be included with one of the wireless upgrades soon. Want to check your email? On the screen. Want a map of every Tesla super charge station in the world? On the screen. Want to use that map to plot a road trip from Seattle to Palm Springs, using your average energy consumption as a guide to plan charging stops? Yep, on the screen.

Tesla display screen

Now that is a BIG screen!

“OH MY GOSH IT’S QUIET!” This is the next Super Cool Tesla Thing. You can have a whispered conversation while driving on the freeway at 80 mph, that is just how darn quiet the Tesla is. Old fashioned, gas burning vehicles have come a long way in noise reduction but the Tesla beats them all by a laughably wide margin.

I wish I had counted the number of times I giggled, laughed and snorted during my brief Tesla experience. So many features of this car took me by surprise, that I couldn’t help myself. But the biggest laugh of all was reserved for the…

Insane Mode!

I remember watching some of the Insane Mode reaction videos and thinking, “Yeah, whatever. It can’t be that fast.”

Dude.

DUDE!

Zero to sixty in 3.1 seconds. I was pushed back in my seat. There were actual g-forces happening. It was insane! I laughed just as hard and loud as all the people in those videos. Fun? Fun doesn’t begin to describe the rush. Even just hammering the accelerator produces a similar effect. This car doesn’t start, it launches! If I owned a Tesla, I would push that button every chance I got. (Steve confessed that he uses it a lot).

Oh, and for an extra $3000 or so, you can get an add-on to the Tesla that will launch you even faster. That’s the Ludicrous Mode.

When it was my turn to drive, Steve told me to try the auto-drive feature. Now, this one is still in beta, so Elon Musk cautions drivers to keep their hands near the wheel and to be ready to take over, but even with the one small glitch we encountered this still qualifies as a Super Cool Tesla Thing. There I was, driving down Hwy 111, three lanes of fast moving traffic, and the Tesla was doing all the work. It changed lanes for me, it slowed down when a vehicle cut in front of me, it kept within the posted speed limit, all while I had my hands off the wheel and my foot off the gas or the brake.

Honestly, auto-drive was a little bizarre. I’m not sure my inner control freak is ready for autonomous cars even if they are the future.

Steve had one stipulation for me to drive his Tesla. I had to “punch it” at least once. I did. I am still smiling.

Kristene Perron in a Tesla

SQUEEEEEE!!!!

There were so many Super Cool Tesla Things I can barely remember them all. What I do remember is that for the first time in my life I drove a vehicle with absolutely zero emissions. None. I drove a car that required only two fluids: windshield wiper fluid and brake fluid. I drove a car that was stylish, sporty, powerful, and fast without requiring an ounce of fossil fuel.

I’m not suggesting that all is perfect in Tesla Land. As long as the power used to charge electric cars comes from coal-fired generators or other unclean sources, then we still have a problem. But the Tesla shows us in the best way possible—hands on—what the future can and should be. We don’t have to sacrifice the joy of driving a high performance vehicle to be kind to the environment (and, thus, to ourselves). In fact, it is exactly Tesla’s traditional appeal that makes it such a good idea.

Steve is so enamored with his Tesla (he says it’s the only car he will own from here on out), that I had to know the story behind his purchase. When I asked if he had always intended to buy an electric car, his answer was a firm “No”. A self-described Gear Head, his first love was sports cars and the first sports car he owned was a Porsche. Not exactly the kind of person you associate with an electric car. (I have a difficult time picturing Ed Begley Jr. in a Porsche).

Word of mouth about the Tesla reached Steve and he was curious. He spent a long time considering his purchase but since that first model (this is Steve’s second Tesla), he has never looked back. This is how real environmental change happens in the automobile industry. Not by guilt-tripping or regulating people into slow, ugly, inefficient cars but by making cars that are so much better than any of the fossil fuel alternatives that they become “must haves”.

As I understand it, Elon Musk’s plan was to start with a high end sports model that would excite early adopters and then gradually get to the point where high quality electric cars would become affordable and desirable. From what I’ve seen, he’s on the right path. A year ago, Steve said, there were only four other Teslas in this area. This year I’ve seen several on the road, including during our test ride yesterday.

If Steve is any indication, the best advertising Tesla has is its extremely satisfied owners. He joked that he once owned a T-shirt that read: They lied to us. This was supposed to be the future. Where is my jet-pack?

“This makes me feel better. This is my jet-pack,” Steve said, with a Tesla smile.

There is one aspect of the Tesla that I believe has been overlooked. Watch or read the news any day of the week and you will be bombarded depressing stories, stories that will make you despair for humanity and our future. After five minutes in a Tesla, all that negativity burns away. You see that the future can be fun and hopeful and even a little Insane.

Steve Varon Tesla license plate

Bonus points for hilarious license plate! (Model S, get it??)

Thanks for letting me share your jet-pack, Steve. Here’s to the future!

Posted in Environment, Nature & Environment, Travel, USA | 2 Comments

Bounce Bounce Bounce

Posted on January 16, 2016 by clubfredbaja

tennis-ball-on-surface-of-hard-court-f5

At a tennis lesson two weeks ago, the coach gave us a little talk about the importance of positive self talk while on the court. Even the best in the world are not immune to those moments when flubbing an easy shot sparks a spiral of verbal negativity. My critical self commentary has cost me games and, more importantly, ruined my enjoyment of a fun time.

“Write a list of positive, helpful comments to say out loud and get you back on your game,” the coach advised. “Choose a physical action to shake you out of it!”

Several days later, I was in the middle of the best games of my life when my serve started to fall apart.

Ball goes into the net: “Come on, Kristene.”

Ball goes long: “What’s wrong with you?”

Ball goes wide: “KRISTENE! Get it together!”

This is usually the point where I really fall apart, where my inner critic kicks me in the gut and destroys all hope of finishing with a smile.

But now I had the coach’s words of wisdom in my head.

Silently: You can bounce back from this!

I turned all of my focus to the ball in my hand.

Bounce back.

I bounced the ball once, twice, three times, letting go of everything else. I watched the ball in motion the way a patient might stare at a hypnotist’s swinging watch. And each time, out loud, I said the word…

“Bounce.”

“Bounce.”

“Bounce.”

I tossed the ball high, bent back, cocked my racquet and then let it fly.

Ball goes perfectly where I wanted it to: “Bounce back!”

I finished strong and my partner and I won the match.

This is my new ritual. Sometimes if you say the words enough you can believe them.

I can bounce back.

Bounce.

Bounce.

Bounce.

Posted in Grief and Mourning, Health and wellness, Sports | Tagged , , | 1 Comment

Manufacturing Magic… Why I’m done with Star Wars

Posted on January 13, 2016 by clubfredbaja

Kristene Perron as Princess Leia

Raise your hand if this scenario sounds familiar…

You go to a place. Maybe the place is a bar, or a restaurant, an annual event, a hotel, a vacation spot, a party. Any kind of place, really, where other people come together and share an experience.

You go to that place and have an amazing time doing whatever it is you do. Not just an amazing time but the most amazing time you can imagine. When you leave that place, you know you will never forget the time you had there. You know, fifty years in the future, you will still remember that place and the time you had there. There was something magical about that place.

Time passes. Maybe a year, maybe a decade. You return to that place. You can barely control your excitement. This is the magic place!

Except this time there is no magic. You have an okay time, or a very good time, but it’s not the same. Something is missing. Maybe you have a rotten time. When you leave, even if you had a very good time, you feel disappointed. You remember this place as the place where you had the most amazing time ever but now it just feels like any other place.

Familiar?

Like me, you probably deduced that the place itself was not magic. There were hundreds of tiny details that combined in a sort of spell that made the magic happen. Everything that happened in the hours, days or weeks leading up to that place and time. Everyone who came together and everything that happened to them in the hours, days and weeks leading up to that time and place. The temperature, the volume of the music, the state of world affairs, the order in which people arrived, the price of the food or the drinks, the time of day or night, all these elements and hundreds more had to align perfectly.

You can return to that place, you can try to recreate the events, but you can’t manufacture the magic. It happens or it doesn’t. In fact, trying and failing to recapture the magic can dilute the memory of that special moment. Sometimes it’s best to keep the memory and leave future magic up to chance.

*

I often call myself a “child of Star Wars”. Seven years old when the original movie exploded onto the big screen, I was awestruck. This was more than a movie, this was a portal that catapulted my imagination into other galaxies.

Like so many others, I was changed forever by the magic of Star Wars.

Twenty-five years after its debut, the original Star Wars (the movie I will always think of as the “first” Star Wars, no matter how they are numbered) was re-released in theaters for a limited time. I was working as a veterinary assistant alongside another die-hard Star Wars fan, Rose, and together we rallied the troops to join us for a night of sci-fi spectacle. The evening was nostalgic and fun. The audience cheered, booed and jumped to their feet for a standing ovation at the end.

Despite its flaws (man, Luke was sure whiny!), it was easy to see why this movie had made such an impact. The story is as old as time (and pilfered from a variety of previous films, as I understand now), but the special effects were mind blowing for 1977. MIND BLOWING! And instead of the stereotypical shiny newness that marked every other sci-fi offering, Star Wars showed us a future that was old, shoddy, and sometimes falling apart.

Falcon

Lucas’s future had a past. Original!

Because we’ve lived with the Star Wars universe for almost forty years, it is easy to forget how much of that first movie was original. But it wasn’t just the movie that created the magic. Remember, back then we didn’t have thousands upon thousands of movies to choose from whenever our hearts desired. Movies came to a theater and if they were good enough they stuck around a while. Sometimes you missed movies because they came and went before you had the time, transportation, and money to get to the theater. Star Wars was not just a hit, it was a phenomenon. I can vividly remember the newspaper articles showing the long lines of eager fans, month after month! How long could this go on?

When I think back to 1977, I don’t just remember the movie, I remember all the excitement swirling around the movie, that tangible sense of “This has never happened before!” I have never experienced anything like it and I’m not sure I ever will again. It was magic, rendered moreso by the golden glow only seven year olds can bestow on memories.

Of course I watched the sequels—The Empire Strikes Back, and Return of the Jedi. Of course I loved them. Of course I was a little sad when the credits rolled on “Jedi” and I knew that was really The End. Of course I was thrilled when I learned about the prequels that Lucas was rolling out. Of course I was heartbroken and disappointed by those big screen disasters. Of course I still went to see the latest installment, The Force Awakens. Of course…

And here’s where my story takes a sharp turn.

*

If I have a muse, it is Seven Year Old Kristene Marrington. That girl is a force of nature. And fearless? Wow. She makes stunt woman Kristene look like a wussie. How did she make it to eight years old without losing a limb, or two? If her parents had known half the crazy antics she got up to, they would have locked her up until her twentieth birthday!

Seven Year Old Kristene stands over my shoulder as I write. She smacks her Hubba Bubba bubble gum and picks at the scab on her knee, underneath her green Cricket pants. Her white blonde hair looks like she stuck her finger in a light socket, she has dirt on her face, and the iron-on Star Wars decal on her t-shirt is cracking because it’s been worn and washed too many times.

“That’s boring,” Seven Year Old Kristene says as I complete another clichéd scene.

I try to explain to her the literary merit of my creative choice, about how readers like it when characters behave a certain way, when you stick to a particular convention.

“BOR-ING!” she says.

Seven Year Old Kristene is never satisfied. She’s seen Star Wars, after all, and she thinks that makes her an expert on storytelling. Worst of all, she’s infected me with the notion that the best stories take risks, strive to be different, break away from convention and expectation. Maybe she doesn’t use those words but I understand what she means.

Nothing annoys her more than movie sequels. There are a few exceptions. She enjoyed Aliens, Terminator II, Mad Max: Road Warrior, and some others. “They’re not boring,” is her explanation. What she means is that the sequels she likes don’t content themselves with recycling the same plot, even if they work with the same characters in the same universe. They take risks.

I was hesitant to take her to the new Star Wars. She didn’t speak to me for a long time after the abysmal prequels. But I was seeing enough positive feedback online that I considered it worth the risk.

Half way through The Force Awakens, Seven Year Old Kristene fell into a deep sulk. At the end of the movie, I asked her what was wrong.

“It’s all the same,” she said. “It’s all the same movie just with some different characters.”

“Some of it was good,” I said, hopefully.

“Why do you keep trying to go back?” she asked. She was angry. “Why can’t you let me have my Star Wars and you can have other stuff? Why do you want to wreck it for me?”

I thought about that one for several minutes.

“Because I want the magic back,” I said.

She crossed her hands over her chest and looked at me in that way seven year olds do. That look that asks why adults are so stupid. “It doesn’t work that way,” she said.

No. It doesn’t.

Lots of people loved the new Star Wars and I’m sure many young people found their own magic in this return to the Star Wars universe but I am not among them. This new Star Wars was safe, predictable, and boring. I would rather spend my time and money on new stories, original stories, stories that take risks the way that the original Star Wars movie took risks. The elements that came together for Seven Year Old Kristene to create the magic that dazzled her developing mind cannot be manufactured, cannot be revisited. I didn’t sit through three prequels and a new sequel because I wanted a good story, I did it to try and recapture a time and place that is long gone.

The magic of Star Wars belongs to Seven Year Old Kristene, and may the force be with her. I am done.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to take my muse out for a chocolate dipped cone as an apology. She’s a mouthy little brat sometimes, but man does that girl know how to tell a story!

Posted in Entertainment, On Scribbling | Tagged , , , , | 5 Comments

Why Your Weight Loss Resolution Will Fail

Posted on January 7, 2016 by clubfredbaja

diary showing new years day and list of resolutions

We are one week into the New Year, which means we are one to two weeks from most people giving up on their New Year’s resolutions. Maybe that sounds cruel but I am not a fan of New Year’s resolutions. I am a big fan of goals, planning, and choosing to live a better life but there’s too much about the annual tradition of planned change that is artificial and designed for failure.

What brings about meaningful and permanent change? In my experience, it’s NOT sitting down at the end of a season of stress and overindulgence and randomly drawing up a list of things you will and will not do as of January 1st.

Meaningful permanent change comes from a place deep in our soul. It is the result of a voice that finally speaks so loudly it cannot be ignored. Often, meaningful change comes on the heels of unhappiness, tragedy, or failure. Motivation for change can come in a blinding flash of light (or barfing up Asian Lettuce Wraps in a hotel bathroom), but that blinding flash of light rarely appears conveniently in the days or weeks leading up to the flip of the calendar. Meaningful change is organic; it cannot be manufactured.

This is not me dumping on your New Year’s resolutions. Most of the items on your list are harmless whether you follow through or give up after even 24 hours. But there is one common area of New Year’s resolutions that does concern me: weight loss.

Why does this concern me? Because if you’ve listed weight loss as one of your goals, you are probably going to fail. The more you fail at this goal, the worse you are going to feel about yourself and the more likely you will be to not do the kinds of things you need to do, in the way you need to do them, to feel good about your body.

You will fail because you’ve made an arbitrary decision. Your motivation is mostly external (New Year! New me!) and not internal, where the most powerful changes come from. You will fail because you won’t see changes in your body quickly enough. You are caught up in a rush and don’t understand that physical fitness is a long, slow process requiring years of work. Becoming and staying physically fit is a lifelong commitment. It’s not a gym membership or a Pilates class or a fad-diet-of-the-week. Fitness is a mindset, not a number on a scale.

(I am not a fan of scales. More about that later.)

How do I know you will fail? Because I’ve seen it. Year after year after year after year. I’ve watched you bound into the gym on January 2nd, full of enthusiasm . . . and I’m still in the gym on February 2nd when you and the rest of the resolution crowd have disappeared.

I want you to succeed. I want you to cross weight loss off your resolution list right now. I want you to stop thinking in terms of pounds or kilograms. I want you to think, instead, of being physically fit, strong, and healthy. I want you to start taking the very small steps that will result in permanent change and keep up those steps even when life puts obstacles in your path.

Who am I to tell you how to get physically fit? I’m a forty-six year old, peri-menopausal, not-financially-wealthy nomad with hypothyroidism and a job that involves hours upon hours of sitting in one place, who still manages to stay fit, strong and healthy most of the time. I have no degrees, I am not an expert, I am not a substitute for your doctor or other healthcare professionals but I can share with you some of the lessons I’ve learned that help keep me physically well-tuned.

Here are some suggestions to consider in lieu of that designed-to-fail resolution.

  1. Visit your doctor. Do this before you do anything. Get a complete physical. Talk about your desire to lose weight and/or be healthier. If you have serious health problems, part of your plan may require medical treatment or medication. I actively encourage healthy eating and exercise habits but don’t assume that those two factors alone will help you. From my doctor I learned that I have very low iron (borderline anemic). Incorporating iron supplements and more red meat into my diet has made all the difference to my level of health and fitness.
  2. Add instead of subtracting. I like this as a general rule for life. Taking things away feels like deprivation, adding feels like abundance. Who doesn’t like abundance? And the crazy part of this piece of advice is that adding will lead to subtracting, naturally. If you add a physical activity you enjoy into your routine, your body will start to crave the fuel that helps with that activity. It will be easier to let go of cookies when you know tomorrow is swimming day and you love swimming and you want to feel good when you dive in the pool!
  3. Make plans. This one should be repeated one thousand times! MAKE PLANS! Nothing undoes a good diet and fitness regime faster than a lack of preparation. If you want to stick to healthy eating and exercises, you need to consider all the obstacles and think of work-arounds well ahead of time. How will you deal with social situations where you have little or no control over the menu? How will you continue to exercise and eat properly when you travel? What about times of emotional upheaval and stress? What if you lose your job and can’t afford to pay for your gym membership? Sit down and seriously think about all the “what ifs” and develop strategies.
  4. Look deeper. Most bad habits have a root cause that may have nothing to do with the actual habit. Over-eating or eating crap is often an emotional response. This may be the time for some introspection, either alone or with a professional.
  5. Say it out loud: “This is work”. Let go of the ridiculous notion that there is a magic solution to maintaining a healthy body. There is not. Genetics only help for so long, sooner or later every fit person must work for it. You can find fun activities (and you should) that you enjoy but that doesn’t mean those activities won’t require a lot of sweat and effort.
  6. Educate yourself. I am frequently shocked at the lack of basic understanding that exists around fitness and weight loss. Learn to read labels in the grocery store and understand what they really mean. Find out how much weight it is healthy and realistic for you to lose per week (hint: it is far less than you think). Research those fancy pills and potions before you waste your money—yes, you are wasting your money. Etc, etc. Knowledge is power. Not sure where to start? How about asking a physically fit person you know to point you in the right direction? Here is an excellent resource, written by someone who really knows what she’s talking about (no, you don’t need to be a creative person to benefit from this book): Health and Fitness for Creative People by Sandra Wickham
  1. Accept that you will fail. Last night I ate far too many tortilla chips and guacamole, then proceeded to devour a big slice of lemon pie that a friend had made. Oh, and I might have had a piece of leftover brownie. I knew I’d overdone it before I’d finished. Oh well. Today is a new day and I know that last night’s binge was not my normal eating pattern. I fail at my fitness goals all the time. Sometimes I fail at just one meal. Sometimes I fail over months. But I never take my eyes off the goal on the horizon…because that is my lifelong goal and it can’t be undone by a few chips and some pie. Don’t beat up on yourself when you fail and DON’T think that one moment of weakness means you must toss aside all your weight and fitness goals. Keep going!
  2. Start slow. So many people jump into fitness with guns blazing, and then burn out or get injured. As I keep repeating (aren’t I annoying?) this is a lifelong goal. You do not need to do everything right now.
  3. Know thyself. Peer pressure is a fantastic tool for sticking to fitness goals. Make lots of plans to do activities with friends! It’s harder to back out when someone else is counting on you to show up. But don’t push yourself beyond safe limits for the sake of the people around you. Listen to your body.
  4. Surround yourself with love! There are lots of people out there who will be happy to cheer you on and offer you support as you start your transition into a new, healthy life. Keep your eyes and ears open for them, and when you find them hang on tight! These are the people who will help drown out the negative voices (including your own) that want you to stay just the way you are, no matter how unhealthy or unhappy you may be.

Finally, let’s talk about that scale. Weighing yourself is only one method to measure progress, please remember that! Realize, also, that the scale lies. It’s too easy to look at that number and despair because you’ve been working your butt off for a week and your weight has actually gone up. UP?! Stop. Take a deep breath. Those extra pounds could be water retention or they could be muscle. It’s not uncommon to gain weight when you start replacing fat with muscle—the latter is heavier than the former. Find other methods to chart your progress (two months ago I could not run 1km, now I can!) and think of your scale as a long term tool, not a target that must be met each week.

I want you to succeed. I want you to know how it feels to be at peace with your body—no matter how big or small that body may be. I want you to experience the satisfaction that comes from years of dedication and hard work. I want new years to come and go without you ever having to think about adding “lose weight” to your list of resolutions because healthy living is just what you strive for every single day.

You can do this. I believe in you.

Posted in Health and wellness | Tagged , , , , | 1 Comment