Sometimes I Just Think

(Warning:  This is a long read, about more serious stuff.  Tried to throw in a few forest photos for a bit of visual interest, but there's not a single dog in it.)

This blog (erratic as it is) is meant to be about a journey. About movement, internal or external. Ultimately with some progress, conclusion, even an occasional epiphany (for me anyways).

And I’d say that I've been fortunate because, in writing it, it has propelled me forward and changed some of my perspectives, all for the better.

But there are some issues that seem intractable.  Incapable of progress.  Leading to thoughts that pile up and swirl around in my head, jumping, jostling, pushing one another, sometimes even smacking each other down.  But to no conclusion at all.

The dialogue around the F-word (Feminism) and women’s place in the world is the intractable issue that most often leads to these thoughts. 

I think.

And I think.

And I think some more.

I get periodically encouraged by what I see, such as Sheryl Sandberg’s #LeanIn or Emma Watson’s #HeForShe.

And I think: Great, this will get some traction. There will be progress.

But then the inevitable backlash comes. Some of it polite. Some of it less so. Some of it threatening. And the ‘important’ numbers (about women on pay scales, in executive positions, on boards) never seem to change much.

The most recent prompt for my thinking was a tweet (by a woman) about women being competitive with each other in business, not supportive at all. The realm was the tech sector but it’s been said about every other business sector. It even has a name: “Queen Bee Syndrome”.

So I thought about that for a while. I do think there’s some truth in it. I've certainly seen it and experienced it. It’s even possible that I've been guilty of it.

So why does it happen?

The answer that kept elbowing and clambering its way to the top of my thought pile was that the competitive scenarios – the standard business scenarios – are the ones where there are very few women. So there are very few ‘spots’ available. (God forbid that women could have all of the spots, or even a proportionate share of them.) If we happen to be in one of those spots, we are ever mindful that another woman can take our spot.  Not any spot. Our spot. One of the women’s spots.

So why do I think this answer might have some truth to it?

Because I've had the better fortune in the last couple of years to operate in different, non-standard business scenarios, in situations where (by accident or design) I am largely surrounded by other women. Some of whom are, in fact, business competitors of mine.

And I've found these to be very supportive environments. We offer advice, time, tools, whatever is needed. Everyone gets credit where credit is due. And even if we have ‘moments’ where we disagree or have some conflict, we seem to recognize that those moments of business discord can be separated and isolated from our usual personal accord.  The former is fleeting, the latter is invigorating.

I guess, fundamentally, we’re making our own spots. And our own business scenarios in which there are no limits on the number of the spots we can have.

Fair to say that these might be considered pretty small enterprises. Flying below the radar of ‘business.’ (I don’t really see a Vancouver Board of Trade honorary breakfast or a trending #VBOT hashtag in our near future.)

But the cool thing is, these enterprises connect with people. Real people. Not shareholders or directors or stakeholders (if I never ever have to use the word ‘stakeholders’ again, I will die a happy woman). Real people.

We do our bit for real people. We hang out with real people. We create an environment of like-minded real people (women and men) in which we can grow and keep doing our bit for more and more real people.

So when I get caught up in the frustrations and the backlashes and the sheer lack of visible progress regarding women’s place in the world, when I get way inside my head and…

I think,

And I think,

And I think some more,

I eventually remember that we do have the power and the opportunity to change those business paradigms. We may have to start small, but we can build a model of success where women can have all the spots we might want, where we can create a vision, where we can have a voice and, importantly, where we flourish in a supportive community.

Don’t get me wrong: this ain't no “The meek shall inherit the Earth” kind of play. We won’t be meek.

Actual sisters...

No ma’am (Wouldn't you know it, I started typing ‘No sir’… Changing the paradigm one word at a time!)

We’ll kick ass. We’ll be awesome. We’ll be f*%!g spectacular. We just won’t do it on the backs of our sisters.  

Instead, we’ll do it arm-in-arm with anyone who wants to join us on the journey forward.  All like-minded real people are welcome.

So I started out with swirling thoughts and discontentment, and ended with a feeling of forward movement.

That’s a good day. 

How to Make a Memory Stick

It starts with Harry Potter and an image that sticks in my mind... of Snape or Dumbledore or whomever, expertly wielding a wand in a pool to extract vivid memories that come straight out of someone else's brain. (Admittedly, I'm no expert on Harry Potter lore and that might not be the 'truth' of the story...


That image has been surfacing regularly in my mind in the last few months. Usually as I tromple the local woods, more or less alone (the dog is very handsome but not much of a conversationalist.)



Without the interruptions of daily life and other people, I've been able to let my thoughts wander. To memories from old times, and good times, and even not-so-good times.


In my mind, those memories are vivid and fabulous and true.

And I've wondered... how do we save and share those memories?

• Is there some kind of magic wand we can use to extract them?  Is there a memory stick??
• And if there is no magic wand, what else can we do to make those memories stick? 

So this thought has been bouncing around my head for a few months. Many times, I've really wanted a magic wand / memory stick. I've really wanted to pull those vivid and fabulous and true memories from my head and share them with others.  Thinking that others might find them interesting as 'the record' of the past (old times, good times and not-so-good times.) Just as I would love to pull the vivid and fabulous and true memories from the heads of the people in my circle. I want to know 'the record' of their lives.

Except that there probably is no 'record'.  Yes, there are memories. Yes, they are vivid and they are fabulous.  But true?  Maybe not so much.


I was reminded of this last week. One sister, one brother and I went to visit my eldest sister who has always been the family historian. Her truth has been unassailable. As we shared our vivid and fabulous and true memories of Expo '67 (yes, we were all sentient; yes, we are all that old), we fully expected that we would need some gentle correction from our historian. But we needed much more than 'gentle' correction, as most of our memories were being revealed as wildly inaccurate. We each had indelible images of singular events which NO ONE ELSE could corroborate (certainly not our historian.) In my case, for example, there was (apparently) NO covered dragon slide that went from the inside of the second story of a restaurant down to the ground outside, as I so vividly recall.


One sister, one brother and I kept deferring to the historian... convinced even more that she had the only true memory stick in the family. "Linda, what happened then? Who got lost?! It was you? You and Randy?? Wasn't it me?? What do you mean we didn't have to wear those awful matching shifts every single day?  We had shorts?? I don't remember any shorts!"

And we looked to our eldest sister/historian to correct our apparent memory lapses and give us the truth. Until she slipped... Big Time.  Interestingly, I can't even recall what her slip was. But immediately we knew. One sister, one brother and I realized that even her truth was assailable.

But there was no judgment.  Because, in the end, it didn't really matter what the 'truth' was. Memories aren't truth. They are vivid and they are fabulous. And that can be enough.

Especially when we find ways to share them - either by swapping recollections with those who were 'there'  or telling tales to others in a way that helps them feel what you think you were feeling at the time.

That is how to make a memory stick. (No magic wand required.)

Grouse on Grouse on Grouse

When it was still warm outside (so many months ago now), my husband and I were sitting on our back deck with our end-of-the-evening cocktail.  Relaxing. Chilling. Comfortable silence.

Until we heard a sound... khkhkhkuuoo-uuoo-uuoo-uuoo

We're thinking "Owls.  Cool, we have owls!" 

But the sound continued... khkhkhkuuoo-uuoo-uuoo-uu  khkhkhkuuoouuoouuoouu
And we were no longer so sure about owls.  It was a different sound. But still really cool. 

And the coolest part was that the sound flitted around us, as a 'call and response'.  We'd hear it from a house or two above us, then from the direct left, then from somewhere to the right and down a little ways.  Finally, we heard the sound from a scant 7 feet away, in the underbrush of our 'natural' back yard. ('Natural' just means we've given up trying to tame the dandelions and thigh-high grasses that flourish up our little hill.)

And we realized that these sound-making things were very low to the ground. Couldn't be owls at all. 

So what could they be?  Seemed vaguely bird-like.  But it was night and pitch-black all around us. So definitely not starlings or robins or woodpeckers... and not your typical birdsong anyways.

So we listened.  And thought.  And wondered.  Until...

OMG! We have grouse!

OMG! OMG!  Of course we have grouse! Because we live on the side of (wait for it...) Grouse Mountain! 

It was a magical moment and a magical night.  The grouse trilled and warbled and communicated. Their many points of sound created an aural web around us while we savoured our G&Ts.

Shortly after that night, the boy was hired on Grouse Mountain. He works in the cafeteria as a cashier and busboy.  He has a nice blue shirt, a tidy black fleece and a name tag that says "Will - North Vancouver" on it.

At first, he'd come home with only a few tidbits about his new work experience, due to an overall air of uncertainty that kept him surprisingly short on words. This was his first job, so he had some things to learn about being an employee and taking instruction from others.

But after a handful of shifts, he began to feel at home in his new environment and his tongue loosened considerably. His stories came faster and furious-er and were more characteristically... embellished. (After all, one should never sacrifice a good story on the altar of the truth!)

He trilled, he warbled. He recounted his words, his co-workers' words and his supervisors' words in his own version of 'call and response' with his colourful descriptions of a worker's life on Grouse Mountain...

Most importantly, he communicated.

And we enjoyed the wall of sound as we savoured our G&Ts.



PS - this grouse is pretty cool also: 

It wasn't what I expected (but it ends well)

I was recently reminded by an old friend that there was a time (about 8 years back) when one of my signature phrases was "It wasn't what I expected".

 

Typically, I would be muttering this phrase after looking at the meal I'd ordered. Sometimes that meal would pass the visual test but then fail to measure up in the taste or texture department.

He and I were friends at work, so many lunches were consumed together and meals played a large part in our friendship. But admittedly that phrase bled over into other parts of my work and home life.

• Hmmm, I appreciate getting a raise, but when it's not quite enough to buy one Starbucks coffee a week... ?  
• Hmmm, our first kid seems bright enough and people say she's kind of cute, but that weird fainting, gasping thing where her eyes roll back in her head... ? 

"It wasn't what I expected"

One phrase. Loaded with disappointment.

Later (about 4 years back), my standard became less about expecting too much and instead about expecting the worst. A colleague of mine asked me about that tendency. He was an optimist (of the overflowing glass variety) so he didn't really understand it at all. I remember telling him that I'm less likely to be disappointed with what actually happens if I always expect the worst. I thought this would mean I'd be continuously pleasantly surprised when the worst did not happen.

So I pretty well veered from one extreme to the other.

From always expecting too much to expecting nothing at all.



Extremes are good, right? Shows conviction and certainty, right??

Well... maybe not so much.

Pretty late in the game (my second half-century learnings), I've realized that neither of these are on anyone's list of the keys to happiness.

So I am going less with Expectations and more with Events.

Kind of a flow, chi, zen sort of thing. (Midzen, remember?) The key is to be more open to events as they unfold and to find something enjoyable and just a little bit wonderful out of each event.

What in hell am I talking about, you ask? (Judging, judging... you could be bit more zen yourself...)

Since I started talking about food, I'll end that way too. A&W is my guilty pleasure for fast food - a rare treat every few months.

• So I go and order my Teen Burger - no onions - and a rootbeer.
• The burger arrives chock full of onions, the lettuce is wet and the bun is soggy.

In days past, it would not have been what I expected and I would have been annoyed. And even if I'd been expecting the worst and this is what I'd got, I would still have been annoyed (that 'pleasantly surprised' thing never really happened.)


So I focus instead on this particular event:

• The burger is warm 
• I have to scrape out the onions, so I get all of that mustardy, ketchupy goodness on my fingers 
• I bite and find that the bacon is just exactly crispy enough
• I take a long pull at the rootbeer and appreciate the melty puddles that the frosty mug has left on the table
• I glance up at my kid across the table, happy to have him here (ok, ok, he's pushing french fries into his mouth with both hands and kind of scowling at the same time, but that's his happy face when he's with me)

Turns out, this is a pretty wonderful moment.

Soggy buns be damned! 

More Tunes for the Road Trip (the Festive Alt playlist)

Do you ever fall out of the habit of listening to music?


I do.

And it's awful!

Yes, yes, it's good to keep current on the important news  But getting traffic 'every 10 minutes, on the 1's'? Is that really necessary when my commute to work is 7 minutes down one road?

When I finally go back to the tunes, my first thought is 'WTF was I thinking, listening to traffic reports for a month?!'

So here I am, grooving to my Festive Alt playlist ('cuz it's close to Christmas, after all).  And loving every second of it.  Bif Naked, Weezer, The Raveonettes... all Classic Christmas Carolers!

I listen and go 'whoa! this is good'.  Then the next one 'whoa! this is gooder.' And I keep turning up the volume. On the computer. Then on the speakers. Then I'm searching for 11!

And I start arm dancing. I'd be full dancing, but I'm sitting here typing so the legs are stuck to the chair and it's just the arms that can let loose from time to time. (Kind of like Thom Yorke, but I use both arms...)

Like when I'm driving and the song is particularly awesome (pretty well anything by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs or Sleigh Bells).

Some people are picking their noses in the privacy of their car - I'm arm dancing like a moron.

No shame, baby, no shame.

(Shoot, just turned up the sound again. Verging on 11)

Am now in the anti-Christmas part of my playlist, like:

• Christmas at the Office Party with the refrain "Christmas, F&*k ya, F&*k ya, F&*k ya" by the Fugitives
• "Bizarre Christmas Incident" by Ben Folds (cuz "Santa got his big ass stuck, Mrs. Claus is gonna sue my ass" - lawyers love this one!) 
•  Blink 182 with their ode to jail time, due to an unfortunate incident with carollers. 

But despite the anti-C music, I do like Christmas. Here's my list of faves:

• Christmas lights - Whether tasteful, gaudy, delicate or grand, sparkly, subtle or shiny. It's all good. 
• Christmas trees - Ours is a collection of fairly random stuff, but I particularly like long shiny drippy things, coloured glass and stuff that needs to be explained. 
• Fruit cake - Mine has lots of dried fruit and bourbon and makes my stomach hurt if I eat too much (which is pretty well every time I eat it)

Lots of other good things, of course - family and friends being high on that list. 

So from our dope family to yours... have a Very Merry!

(And a Fabulous 2015!)

L'auteur (est moi)

I was recently reminded by a friend that I'm supposed to be writing the great Canadian novel.

She's suggested a thinly veiled parable about shenanigans at a large, disorganized financial institution.  The characters will be fictional, of course (because there's no way you'd know who "Mesley" is, right?)

Can't quite bring myself to do it, though. Firstly, because I'm not really sure what a parable is. And secondly, because if the veil is too thin, someone might guess which financial institution I'm riffing on. Since I'm still a shareholder, it's not really in my best interest to inadvertently contribute to the death spiral.

So there is no parable about shenanigans at a large, disorganized financial institution.  Instead, I started a novel - a work of fiction - that is meant to be funny, ironic, sarcastic, about a young woman who's been cast adrift for most of her life... And although it  might incorporate some fictional-ish shenanigans (write what you know!), that won't be the primary focus of it.


When I started the novel in some earnest a while ago, my young teenage son said skeptically "But that's not a real job".  Which was true.  (And which also reminded me that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree)


Yet I created this daydream, where I imagined a lovely little writing shack up at the back of the yard, where I'd go every morning, make some tea and write, write, write, while I looked southwestward towards the Georgia Straight and Vancouver Island, waaaaay off in the distance.

But who would read my written words?  Probably not my son (maybe if I SnapChatted it?).  Probably not my daughter either (unless I added photos and tagged her in every one?)

More importantly, who would pay for those words?  I'm sure it's difficult enough for the really great Canadian writers to make a living from their words. And I'm certainly no Miriam Toews or Ann-Marie MacDonald. Sigh.

So I knew there were hurdles. But hurdles that I was willing to fight against.  Until I realized the biggest hurdle that would shoot my daydream down in flames...

Ummm, I'm not really a tea person.

So, I'm asking... would bourbon do?