Self Reliance and Passing on the Knowledge

A couple of weeks ago, two of our faucets at home were leaking, and my brilliant husband fixed them himself. Then the toilet was leaking, and he got a part and fixed it. Then the dishwasher rack wheels broke, so he got parts and fixed that. Then yesterday the oven element stopped working, so he got a new one and fixed it. The framers missed doing some vital parts of the basement job, so my husband got some two-by-fours and finished the project. I'm married to Superman!

Not only did he save us a lot of money, he showed me how to do things while he did them. That way, I'll be able to cope better in future if/when it happens again. There's something very satisfying about knowing how to do something yourself. Even if you're never called on to do it, just knowing you could gives you confidence. Hence my loom and knitting needles and soldering iron and... Get the tools, learn to use them, and enjoy more peace of mind. You never know what potential scenarios could arise in the future, but just knowing you are capable of learning is strengthening in itself.

And now that I have a functioning oven again, I'm doing my Christmas baking. Buttertarts, here I come!

This Shining Life by Harriet Kline

Sometimes you read a book that hits you in just the exact way you needed at that moment. This Shining Life is a beautifully haunting book, and the more I think about it, the more in awe I am of the writer's skill. She draws you into the story, yes, but she also makes you experience the story. The same struggles and frustrations the characters face. You want to fight against what the characters are going through and the mess they make of things, but in the end you have to just love them and accept their flaws and ways of being. And in doing that, you might just have to accept your own, too. Masterfully done!

There's a theme throughout the book of searching for meaning, to know what it means to be alive. But it's the search itself that gives life meaning, whatever conclusions you arrive at. The hope and wish for meaning lends meaning in itself. 

At the end of the book, the author has written a short essay explaining the story's origins and the writing process she went through. One part especially jumped out at me: "Though I had glimpsed what it might be like to be a slide rider, I knew I'd never be one myself. But that didn't mean I wasn't living life to the fullest. My experience of clinging to the safety rail at the top of the slide was as rich and valid as the experience of letting go."

I think sometimes we watch Bear Grylls crashing through the wilderness, read about intrepid people who go zip-lining through Costa Rica, or hear about those who have relinquished everything and pushed every limit in order to plunge into their passions, and we think that life has to be that bright and loud in order to be fully satisfying. That you have to immerse yourself so intensely before you can soak up that precious moment and feel alive. We're always waiting for life to begin. But it doesn't take an explosion to set life in motion. The moment doesn't have to be technicolour. Life can be just as vibrant and fulfilling and intense lived on a calmer and more pastel scale. I can paddle in my backyard pool and feel just as alive and thrilled as the person who goes over Niagara Falls in a barrel. The key is awareness. Gratitude. Focus. A willingness to open our fists and grasp whatever is right before us.

A profound book I'm going to have to read again, to sop up every rich drop. 

Looking for Gloves in all the Wrong Places

(Apologies to Johnny Lee)

It's that time of year again, when normal people put away their summer clothes and pull out their winter clothes. I don't tend to have summer and winter clothes, just as I don't really have casual and formal clothes. I have about five outfits, and I cycle through them all year round. I wear sandals up until the snow flies, and then I pack them with me, wear boots to wherever I'm going, and swap them for the sandals once I'm indoors again. 

I keep my outerwear (coat, hat, muffler, gloves) in the front closet year round. They are somewhat shoved to one side, but they don't get stored anywhere else. The smaller stuff is kept either in my coat pockets or in a fabric shopping bag on the shoe shelf. No variation, year after year.

Why is it, then, that every fall, when I pull it out to wear for the first time, I can never find my gloves? And why is there always a stray black mitten no one in the family recognizes or claims? Why do I find two left-handed gloves but never a right-handed one? Do they crawl away by themselves when I'm not looking? Do we have elves? Are the Borrowers living under my floorboards?

I find the same thing with gardening gloves every spring. Lots of left-handed ones, no right-handed ones, and every single glove has holes in the seams.

And while we're at it, whose snow boots are these? Why is there only one left-footed boot size 9 but no right one? No one in the house wears a size 9, incidentally. Is there someone out there wandering around with one soaked left foot? And how did we end up with a Molson Canadian ski hat when none of us drink beer?

These are the questions that keep me up at night.

Coming to Canada

This week marks 33 years since we moved to Canada. It's hard to fathom how it could be that long. It has been an incredible journey, and I feel we've landed in a good spot. We've raised our children, had grandchildren, bought property, finished our schooling, dealt with health issues, worked at solid jobs. We have made friends, gotten involved in our community, and gotten to know the interesting places around us. This part of Canada is gorgeous, especially in the fall, with so many rivers and waterfalls and parks that invite wandering. There's just enough "wildness" close to home to nourish my soul.

I do miss the mountains. I do wish I could be there for my family's gatherings and ball games and celebrations. Canadian politics can sometimes disappoint. But Ontario is home now, where I've put down comfortable new roots, and I look forward to exploring more of Canada. 

On the weekend I went walking in Rattray Marsh and sat beside Lake Ontario for a while, just soaking in the last of autumn's sunshine and feeling the breeze on my face and feeling lucky to be alive and here in this place. The temperature was perfect, the light on the silver water was perfect, and the thump of my shoes against the boardwalk was satisfying. A Great Blue Heron watched serenely from not far away as I passed. I found myself thinking, "No matter what days may follow, I have had this perfect day, and the memory of it will carry me through whatever comes next."

Thank you, Canada, and the lovely people I've met, for letting me join you.

Addictions, unwanted and otherwise

At church on Sunday, someone mentioned in a talk "unwanted addictions." Which got me to thinking about whether there are wanted addictions. And of course, books immediately came to mind. I don't just adore reading, I adore the books themselves. The shape and heft of them, the scent of old paper, the patina on a particularly old cover, the beauty of them on the shelf. An entire bookcase is like a patchwork quilt, bringing warmth and personality into a room. The act of reading itself is an integral part of it all, of course, but just being around books makes me happy.

I also feel intensely -- though I'm not sure it's an addiction quite yet -- toward wood. Running my hand along the smooth, satin surface of an antique table. The smell of fresh-cut pine. The feel of it under my hands as I sand and stain and varnish, buffing to bring out the glow. I like the solidity and earthiness and authenticity of wood furniture. I want to learn more about woodworking, and watching someone use a lathe is as fascinating as watching a pottery wheel, as a shape rises out of nowhere. The soul of the wood being revealed.

So yes. Some addictions are very much wanted. Life would be a dimmer thing without them.

Meanwhile, happy plants

The lettuce, basil, tomatoes, cucumbers, and sweet potatoes growing under my lights seem happy. I've gotten several batches of pesto out of the basil so far, lots of salads from the lettuce, and now it looks like a tomato is imminent. Also flowers on the cukes. I'm in my happy place.

Surreal thoughts at 7 a.m. -- the great disconnect

This morning I went to let the dog out, and the sky was the most amazing delicate salmon colour, fading to pale blue. The trees were a dense silhouette against this dramatic backdrop, and there was the most perfectly-placed sliver of silver moon. It was the most incredible sunrise, full of peace and promise, and I was filled with a strange mix of joy and sorrow. Joy that I've been given the chance to live on this amazing planet, with all its beauty and intricacy. Gratitude for the ability to see and appreciate all this goodness around me. Sorrow that the earth has had to bear with us and suffer for so long. That line from the Book of Enoch kept coming to my mind. When will the earth rest? It has done its job amazingly well, and now it's time to let it rest. It has earned the right to go to its next stage. I wonder if it can -- if it should -- forgive us.

I find myself in the surreal position of waiting for the geopolitical situation and climate change to end life as we know it at any moment, and yet still writing out my grocery list and organizing the septic tank cleaning, deciding whether to spray-foam insulate the garage, ordering garden seeds for next year. Without the full expectation that there will be a next year.

But humans have unconquerable hope, and we have to plan for a future just in case there is one. Well, there will be one, just maybe not the one we have always assumed will come to us. There is tension in that anticipation, but there isn't anxiety. Whether the world lasts another two days or two decades, I suppose in the bigger scheme of things it doesn't matter, if we have taken the time to soak in the sunrise and be grateful today.