Author: samandoat

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Charities that Bite

I am very disappointed with one of my favourite charities.

At this time of year I am bombarded with mail from many worthwhile charities.  I have donated to several in the past, but as my income shrinks I have to be more selective of who receives my funds.

I have always been miffed by the huge amount of address labels, blank cards, note paper, cheap pens and the like that are sent to me to solicit my donation.  I am offered junk which has nothing to do with the cause hoping to entice and reward me for my money.  I don’t want this stuff.  Your reason for being is enough.  Do you do good in the world?  The money actually goes to where it is needed?  That is good enough.

I loathe the long letters that complete these packages, not only for the waste of paper, but they start to sound like needy, whiny relatives who don’t work but expect me to support them.

I support a local organization that sends me email newsletters occasionally during the year showing me where my money is going.  X number of dollars spent on this.  No pie charts, no gloss.  No whining about costs, inflation, no complaints or pleading.  This is what we did with your money.  Here’s what we need for what in the future. Yay.

The charity that irked me however is a favourite of mine, that set up an office in my country because I presume we are donating lots of money to them.  They sent me a letter in which they apologize for delays in their mailings, offer me the token junk, and then proceed to blame our government for their problems.  They are very upset because our government investigated them, found they are not obeying our tax laws and now demand they comply.  Imagine that.

Because they did not bother to research our laws in the first place, or worse, chose to ignore them, they are now mad it is costing them money and time to follow our rules.  And they want me to pay for it!

We are a generous nation, this is well known.  But I am incensed with organizations who love our money and complain bitterly about our laws.  Laws that protect our citizens, our way of life, values and livelihood.    They make little effort to learn of us and then condemn us for enforcing our laws.  If you are going to disrespect what we have worked so hard for, I take offense at that.  Not to mention it cost us taxpayers lots of money to investigate you and make sure your business complies with our regulations, and continues to do so.

I did write this organization a brief letter, but who knows who will read it.  I hate to complain about charities, I have never done so in my life.  They serve valuable and necessary functions and I support that.  Just don’t bite the hand that feeds you.  Only my cat is allowed to do that.

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Your Calling

I was asked recently “How do you receive your calling?”, to which I glibly replied that God no longer calls, He texts.

It has some truth to it.

I think it is very rare that a person has an a-ha moment.  I always wanted one.  The fire of God just hits me and POW I know who I want to be and what I should be doing.  The truth however is a lot less dramatic.  I walked around with my mouth half open, looking pretty stupid and not having much direction at all.  I did a lot of hoping, wishing and praying.  Only to find that the a-ha has been right in my face all along.  I should have seen it too – I am very nearsighted!

Since most of us have no clue what a true version of ourselves is, we need to let God work that out.  And when it is you are likely to remark “I knew that!”, and maybe feel a little stupid afterwards.  Sometimes your calling doesn’t exist yet in the world, and you have to wait for it to appear.  Maybe you are already living it and don’t realize it.  You are tired of it and want something new.  Or maybe you simply can’t believe it, or think it should be something else, something better.  Perhaps others tell you what it should be.  Many times, a calling is not a grand affair, but it has a great impact on the world, perhaps many years later in the future.  A calling is not what you think it is.  But it all works for God.

My life story is not an arrow, it is a convoluted, messed up, child’s crayon squiggles across a ripped up, yellowing piece of construction paper.  That is my journey.  Step forward.  Steps backward.  Lessons learned and most forgot.  There is no point A and point B.  I’ve been all over the map.

For me, my whole miserable adult life was a journey back to childhood.  I knew who I was then.  I just forgot and had to make a 40+ year trip to get back there.  Sound familiar?

But this trip is not about years or age.  It is about mind.  The constant renewing of my mind.  There is no “Hello, this is God, do this”.  I have had an ongoing dialogue of which God knows the direction of, the things to be addressed and how long it will take, taking into account how stubborn I am.  No doubt I delayed the process by being a mule at times.  Shutting myself off to new ideas and experiences, just plain getting tired of it, clinging to the past, living for the future, and having my own ideas (UGH!).

Life is an ever present unfolding, an evolution, a constant movement of things in and out.  All these things offer delights; a lesson, a message, an emotion, an experience.  They are all gifts to be embraced and enjoyed.  Some will teach, some will reach, and others are just for fun.  God uses all of it to bring you to your highest self, and that just might be full circle back to where you started.

It is my wish this Christmas that you embrace your life and live it fully.  Allow God to guide you in your journey to your highest self.  Guidance and messages can appear anywhere.  Keep your eyes and ears and heart open.  Your calling is coming by text.  It says “Let joy be your reason”.  Follow joy in all your decisions and you’ll start to get on track.

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One Cat Apartment

One cat apartment is more a statement about who rules the dwelling as opposed to how many cats can abide there.

Be prepared for a complete makeover of your life, possessions and habits when you decide to become a one cat apartment dweller.

I am permitted to reside here of course because I provide  the means, the food and creature comforts.  I am rewarded for this with the cats rendition of love.

My black spotted cat dutifully wakes me at 4:30 a.m. no matter what my condition (that is irrelevant, everyday is a new day!) and makes sure he is my top, and only priority for the day (he will allow me my amusements when he chooses to nap).  Hmm, now that I think of it, it is a lot like being married.

He delights me with all his antics, quirks and character.  As my world of valued possessions is increasingly reduced to being tucked into drawers or at ceiling level, I am mesmerized by his boundless energy, enthusiasm and curiosity, or by his plain old bad mischievous behaviour.

He is certainly good for me, though I am frustrated by his persistence to do wrong (chew expensive art supplies, dig up plants, repeatedly relocating things on shelves to things on floors).  People comment I am a much nicer person in the possession of a cat.  In fact, many pushed me to get one after suffering me a year catless.  My Mother used to plead with me to go to the gym for the same reason.  Everyone benefited afterwards.

I must admit I had never heard the expression One Cat Apartment until I got my new cat.  My lease limits how many people can live with me but not pets, or what kind.  It doesn’t need to.  No matter what the size of my living space, one cat is enough.

Even now while writing this, little four foot is into forbidden places, knocking over stuff and squeezing into areas I could never reach into.  Creating havoc because I dare to ignore him.  He never tires of this, he delights in it.  It keeps me very humble and reminds me of what really matters in life.  Things are replaceable.  Sam (my cat) is not.

As Christmas comes and my house is devoid of decorations, for the same reason as when I hang my clothes on the rack to dry, within moments all is on the floor, I am forced to be content to have all that glitter within me, and shine from the inside out.  Little cat is only 6 months old.  Presently, everything is one big Christmas gift to Sam, to be unraveled, dispersed, played with and ultimately destroyed. The years will pass, cat will settle down and my concealed dormant Christmas tree will once again be released and brighten my room.  I am not overly bothered by this.  I am an enthusiastic little kid putting decorations up, and then procrastinating until July to put them away.

When he jumps up into my lap unexpectedly, looks up at me with bright golden eyes and purrs warmth and love into my heart, I know I have a forever blessing cradled in my arms.  This is the true meaning of every day of my life, not just Christmas; peace, love and joy.

I should wish for everyone to have a One Cat Apartment.

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Magic Flute

B flat  B flat  C  B flat  E flat  C . . .

Hap-py Birth-day to me . . .

This year’s birthday I can play this tune for myself!

Long ago, my parents convinced me that I was not musically inclined.  This was to keep our house quiet. Like most children however, I longed to make noise, and any noise can be music. The flute was the instrument I most wanted to learn.

In the cult movie Harold and Maude, Maude introduces the young Harold to music (ahem, among other things) saying everyone should be able to make some music.  She chooses for him the instrument that most suits him, a banjo.  That little snippet from the movie stayed with me because I knew the flute was what I should play.  This desire never left me.

I had a bit of music education at school, but was never encouraged to pursue making sounds.  Music was kept at a distance.

My Mother took me to classical music concerts because she liked to be a Princess.  We’d dress up and shine in our box seats one Wednesday a month.  She did not want me to learn music, she disdained the music ‘snobs’ who knew everything about certain pieces, how and why they were written, how they should sound, what they meant.  “You should bring your own interpretation to it” she’d admonish me. “Just listen to it and let it take you where it will.”  I did derive a great deal of enjoyment from those evenings, and I got to hear some great musicians, including Isaac Stern and Yo-Yo Ma.  Musicians had a gift, they were special ‘others’, born to make music.

Then, one day, just a year ago, a friend told me she was buying a piano.  She hadn’t played in years and missed it.  I casually remarked on my musical inability and how I always wanted to play the flute.  Well, she pulled out a piece of paper and in a matter of minutes taught me how to read basic music.  “Go get your flute” she smiled.

And I did.  A nice student rental.

I even took lessons, until my bank account couldn’t support that any more.

When a tune first appeared from my squeaks and squawks, I experienced magic.  Those little black orbs with sticks in them lifted off the page and danced!  No longer a passive listener, I became creator!  Mary Had a Little Lamb!  Ode to Joy!  Freres Jacques!

To be fair, I am not a good player.  I cannot play a lot of notes on one breath (slur), so I am limited to songs where I can go toot, toot, toot!  My octaves are up in the rafters.  None of this matters.  A year later, a few days before my birthday, I can play the song to myself.  A nice birthday gift.

Maybe next year I can buy a flute.

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Adjoining Walls

New neighbours moving in, muffled sounds coming through my living room wall.  The adjoining wall.  That unusually thin partition that both separates and joins me to my neighbours.  The common wall.  Possibly only a dry wall.

I’ve learned a few things about common walls.  Never put the head of your bed against one.  Either you’ll keep your neighbour awake with your snoring, or they will keep you awake with their lovemaking (or vice versa if you are fortunate).

Don’t put your stereo, TV, computer, gaming device or similar repetitive noise maker (a relative) against one.  You’d be amazed how far sound travels and how loud it is next door, above and below you.  I am startled by how many people who insist on doing this don’t know what headphones are.  It’d solve most of the problems, save the talkative relative.

There are hundreds of things to complain about whenever you share a dwelling with 400 other people, but noise tops the list.  It’s all those things happening on the other side of those adjoining walls.  Of course!

But right now I am the offender.  I have a very bad cold.  Very bad.  I spend the wee hours of the night with a dry hacking cough. I curl up on the sofa in the living room to spare my neighbours sleep, but at 2 a.m. probably everyone within 5 floors of me has heard I am sick.

I am currently blessed to be nestled between two very quiet neighbours.  But I dream of living somewhere where the adjoining walls are with nature.  The only form of pleasant annoyance would be birds, crickets and frogs singing, rain pattering, wind whooshing, maybe waves lapping.  Or perhaps, the sound of nothing at all, like I experienced in the desert.  And I won’t disturb anyone.

However, as I get older, and a bit deafer, I tend to get louder and my neighbours quieter, strange that.

Think I’ll go practice my flute now.

Don’t worry – it’s only for 25 minutes.

In the dining room.

It’s 2 p.m.

Mostly it’ll be a few toots, mixed with coughs.

All of you are at work.

Far from adjoining walls.

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NOT on the Buses

Nasty day.  Not snowing yet, but that rain is near ice.  The bus is late, difficult to gauge by how much, they come when they feel like it, sometimes two arriving together, and then nothing for days.  My feet start to get cold.  A bus passes, too full to pick us up.  This is the daily attempt to commute to work.  Repeat the scenario on the way home, the wait so long, I could catch the next bus back to work.

Nothing can accelerate work place burn out faster than a lousy commute.  Perhaps the commute started the burn out in the first place.

Forget the advice to spice things up by going a different route.  I take the shortest, and only route available.  If there was another way, it would be infinitely longer – why would I want to do that?  Get up earlier and come home later?  Na.  And in the winter it is dark a.m. and p.m., not much change of scenery there.  Finding another route is as bad advice as standing on a bus without holding onto anything to improve your balance (yes this piece of wisdom is on the internet).  Advice doled out by people who never take the bus.  Ever.

It’s not the scenery that dulls the mind.  It is the waiting. Looking hopefully down empty roads and seeing no vehicles, of any kind, in sight.  Just blowing snow.  Or sheets of rain.  Or a nice sunset on the good days.

Once on a bus, packed in like sardines, our bulk is smashed to one side as bus takes corners on two wheels, and folded up like an accordion on sudden stops and starts.  And it stops at every. single. stop.  We get every. single. red light.

Eight a.m.  The driver sings at the top of his lungs all the way to work, in two languages.  A lot of tremolo, but not gravel down a tin chute, thank goodness. But at 8 a.m.?

Move closer to work?  Are you kidding me?!  The repercussions of that should be evident.

But busing beats walking. Walk?  I had to during bus strikes.  In January.  It took an hour and a half one way.  And I had it easy.  Some people had to walk hours and still put in a full day.  I near froze, got buried in a snow bank by a snow plow and generally believed my life would soon end.  Bicycle?  Dangerous. But brave souls do it. Koodoos to them for sure.  Plus they save a huge amount of money and get in shape.  Winter must be a blast to bicycle in.  I used to in the summer, but bike thefts are common.  So nice at the end of the day to find your only ride home is gone or worse, mangled.  No room in current office for safe stow away of bike.  I know, I have an excuse for everything.

Of course everyone has their own horror stories of taking the bus.  I could curl your hair with some of mine.

I am, of course, ranting.

I figured it out.  I have gone down the same road almost 6000 times during the past twelve years.

If I get to retire when I want, it means maybe only a thousand more trips.

I won’t miss it.

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Second Childhood

I laugh to say this –

“Technology had to catch up to me”

Especially since I was a hold out on landline telephones until this year.

Locked in me is my 5 year old creative self.  So many interests that, unfortunately, in the mindset of 1960’s middle class dumb were not valid careers.  At least, not for a woman.

Acceptable career choices were like frame selections for glasses – four.  Round, cat eye, aviator and engineer glasses (plastic top, wire bottom).  Secretary, Stewardess, Telephone Operator, Housewife.  Breaking outside of these boundaries were not for the faint of heart as any woman who did can now attest.

Creative endeavors were regarded as cottage industry crafts.  Lots of manual labor, little profit.  But I saw a world beyond craft sales.  I wanted to have my own column in a magazine and publish my stories in books.  Display my art on book covers and advertisements.  See my photo’s in journals and coffee table books.  Design clothes and merchandise.  Most of all, I wanted to make epic movies like Cecil B. DeMille, Sergio Leone and John Huston.  Not very likely to happen for a middle class suburbia girl.

Careers slightly outside of the norm lacked imagination.  Thus, because I excelled in math, my parents envisioned a career in accounting.  The only creativity I could find in that involved food – fudging the numbers and cooking the books.  I was bored to tears and quit.  My head was off into astronomy, physics and mechanics.  I had a love affair with cars.  Exploration of these pursuits were confined to books, museum visits, and much to my parents chagrin, tinkering with mechanical beings – including the car.

Womanhood arrived, dragging with it, office work, the killer of imagination.

Severely strangled, but not snuffed out, all my interests stayed with me through an emotional adulthood.  They surfaced occasionally, wrecked havoc with the boredom of office work, fought with me constantly to be expressed and whenever possible completely took over all my senses and caused me to quit viable jobs.  Left and right brain waged war.

Enter the digital age.  My knight in shining armor.

Publish?  Design?  Create?  Permission granted!  No panel of judges to determine if I am worthy.  Software and hardware abound!  Upon the discovery of this new world, I plunged in with a custom built computer, affording me ten years of epic film making.  Bless the internet – I publish books, design merchandise, I have my own Blog!

I don’t much care if no one ever sees my stuff.  I am a child once more.  That is enough.  My second childhood.

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My Stuff, Your Stuff

A white shoe box was tucked securely under her arm, slightly crushed from a tight squeeze.

“Can you keep this for me for a couple of months?” she hands me the box, the lid askew.

“Sure.” Having worked for ten years at this Seniors Centre, I was used to strange requests.

She pulled up a chair in front of my desk and collapsed into it.

“Oh thank you!” she sighed heavily.  “My daughter is cleaning out my apartment and is throwing everything away!” and then she burst into tears.

Mementoes.  Keepsakes.  Things of interest.

All gone.

Except for the shoe box.

Inside she shows me some black & white photos of her late husband.  His war medals.  A picture of her as a decorated war nurse.  Trinkets and souvenirs from vacations.  Things that had memory and meaning.  Bits of this and that.  She runs her hand over the lid as she closes it and smiles at me.

“It’s just about all I’ve got left” she gasps.

I offer to save more for her if she wants.

“No.  No, it’ll be fine.  That’s enough”.

It is not the first time I’ve heard of daughters on a house cleaning rampage.  They mean well.

My Mother had a lot of stuff.  It wasn’t junk or dirt or a mess.  Her apartment was filled with pleasant memories and interesting things.  There was no reason for me to have a fit and clean things out.  I didn’t live there.  It was her stuff and her place.  Just as I have my stuff, and my place.  After all, she had decades more years of memories and things representing those experiences than me.  Such things are like old friends and very comforting.  They made her feel safe.  When it came time for her to let go of things, and move into a home, I let her choose what meant the most to her to keep.  She requested that I keep some things.  Just knowing I had them was a great comfort to her.

Months later this woman retrieved her shoe box and held it lovingly in her arms.

“My daughter moved me into a seniors home” she lamented.  “I only have room for this”.

When we’ve got more years behind us than ahead, we take delight in things past.  What is wrong with surrounding ourselves with the things that remind us of a life well lived?  The young show off their trophies of places they’ve been and photographs of things they’ve seen to impress others.  We have emotional ties to our trinkets and treasures that provide us with a feeling of home, security and love.  We realize such things have little if any meaning to anyone else and we don’t expect them too (but are a little disappointed they don’t).  However, they sure warm our hearts and keep us grounded in an increasingly hostile world.  So be careful with our treasures children, and gentle with us, please.  You can do what you like when we are gone.  You just might find some new meaning in them then.

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Technologically Challenged

When the electronic age began to pick up momentum in the public, we were amused by it.  New gadgets and wizardry were mostly expensive toys or luxuries.  I remember getting a private line telephone, a luxury that freed us from the intrusive party line.  When I went to Expo 67, Bell demonstrated video phones where we could see the person we were talking to and we didn’t like it!

I let technology get way ahead of me with this mindset, which wasn’t all that bothersome.  I lived happily in the dark ages for a long period of time.  I was able to function.  I had my share of crappy cell phones with limited range, far too small screens and buttons, and never used them much. They were an interesting thing to have, but not a necessity.

Until…

I was going to visit my brother.  I haven’t traveled in decades.  The trip required 3 connecting flights.  As is the case, quite frequently, I now understand, my first connecting flight was delayed.  The airport was under construction, so I was not surprised that the one pay phone I found was not working.  No worries.  Lots of time left. I can call him when I get to Denver if I am going to be late.

I am going to be late.  12 hours late!

Panic!

There are rows and rows and rows! of phones at the Denver airport.  And not one of them work.  I know.  I tried them all.

So I see a big guy sporting an even bigger cowboy hat and a badge that said Information.

“Am I doing something wrong?” I ask him about the phones.

“Nope.  None of them work.  Haven’t worked in months.  Is your phone dead?”

“I don’t have one.”

He shrugs and walks past me.

Around me everyone has their face illuminated by blue phone light.  I don’t even know how to use one.

I walk over to a man with his nose to the screen.  “Kind sir.  I am in a fix.  I will pay you $20 to make a phone call for me.”

He looks at me, blinks in disbelief.  He hands me his phone “Go ahead” he says “You don’t have to pay me.”

I explain it is a long distance call.  He says that doesn’t matter.  I hand the phone back to him.

“Can you dial it for me? – I don’t know how.”

He gives me a silly grin as if I am joking, but dials the number. “Just talk into the screen” he is half serious.  He stands there gawking at me, suspecting some kind of prank.  As fortunes have it, the line is busy.  “Can you try another number?”

Mission accomplished, I get to leave a message. He waits as I collect my suitcase, give him a heartfelt thank you, and head for the nearest eatery.  He looks around, waiting for some TV host and camera crew to show up, tell him it was all just a gag and can we use it on our show?

My unfortunate brother had to page a reply to me at the airport and pick me up at midnight, instead of noon.  And oh yeah, he waited quite a while at the airport for me, didn’t get my message until he went back home.

“Get this” he shows me the blue screen when I arrive.

I comply.

Now I’m hooked on the thing.  How did I ever manage without one?!

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Aging GraceLESSly

Someone is trotting down the stairs behind me.  Footsteps rapidly grow louder and gain momentum until the owner sweeps past the landing and encounters me.

“Oh” a young man pops out earbuds and looks at my feet “Can I help you?”

“I’m just slow” I reassure him “I have a sore knee”

He looks concerned but never looks me in the eye.  “Really, go ahead” I touch his arm which brings his eyes to mine.  I give him my best smile ever.

“Okay” he pushes his ear buds back in.  The first few steps away he hesitates, then he dances away.  I spend the next ten minutes navigating a one minute stairway.

I forgot I can’t do stairs for a while yet. I hurt my knee several weeks ago and it doesn’t like to bend anymore.

It makes me feel very old to be inflexible, it always did.  But now injuries take a long time to heal.

Of course this current injury is my doing.  It comes from a common fault of getting older.  Your brain and your body do not agree on your age.  The brain says I’m 19! Whoopee!  The body says nothing at first, but shows you your real age very shortly after.

When I was young the mind ruled.  My body followed.  I could bounce back from most of my punishments in record time.  If I wanted to lose weight it only took several trips to the gym, or a good run.

Now the body rules and the mind, well, is just stupid about this change in power and wisdom of the body.  It does not understand age – what is age?

We wage war with this.  We try to defeat age.  But age is not a phase you are going through or a disease that you get better from with the right exercise and diet.  There is no battle to fight.  Age is a process.  It is Mother Nature.

Science and consumerism give us promises of renewed youth; perfect eyesight, dancing until dawn, or sex all weekend, with chemicals and surgery.  We come from the Star Trek generation where lasers can fix anything or, simply make you vanish.

Not to say some of this isn’t useful.  But once you have your twentieth birthday you cannot go back.  Ever.  In any way.

Thank God.

I would not ever want to go back to those emotional years.  Things are SO much better emotionally. I will probably blab about that later.

It is good of course to be physically fit and as healthy as you can be.  You cannot let yourself go to seed at any age, this just adds problems and takes away the ability to have a good quality of life (and later on, you will pay).  But it is going to take a lot more effort after 50.  You’re gonna be tired.

I still have a lot to learn, but I do get this.  Slow – exercises must be done slowly and carefully until I am back in shape.  Consistency – No more run once in a while.  Exercise has to be daily to maintain a certain level.

For now, I try to find elevators.