The Heavy Box

   The box is surprisingly heavy. I can feel the hard casing through the velvet bag. The pull strings dangle unceremoniously. The box is heavy, but so small. My thumbs rest on the top as my fingers weigh it. My arms want to push it away while my heart wants to hug it. My mind does not want to think about it, so it keeps thinking how heavy the box is. Don’t think about the people who just came in, and handed you the box. Cars and vans unload their passengers, stamping off the snow from boots as they file in the door. Their long dark coats cover their dark pants, their dark dresses, their dark moods. They don’t look at the box either, as they hug the giver and file past. The box is so heavy for such a small size.
   The smell of coffee trails by with people coming from the kitchen. Mingling conversations are hushed and nervous, unsure of what to say, what is supposed to be said. The giver is swept off without a word, arms surrounding her and releasing her to the next set like a wave on the ocean. I looked down for a moment, the forest green bag is too thin to do anything but keep it away from sight but the form reminds you that there is still a box there, a heavy box. My feet are numb, afraid to give away or tumble if they move. My throat is closing up, I am afraid to speak for fear that it may come out as a cough, no sudden moves allowed.
   My eyes scan the room. Familiar faces pull the lump in my heart through my chest as I try to swallow it back down. My eyes meet those of the elder gentleman, with strong hands that are tending to the shoulders and backs of fragile souls. I send a silent cry for salvation screaming through the crowd. I look down; lift the box ever so slightly to somehow turn it into a part of my plea. I look up and his eyes meet mine in acknowledgement. My heart wells up with the hope of reprieve.
   The box is so heavy. My fingers are cramping under the weight. They spread ever so slightly to try and find relief. The bag starts slipping. The solid box suddenly feels like it is made of puzzle pieces, my fingers won’t keep still, won’t keep their grip. The box pulls the material loose. My mind is caught in a warning flash of dread. Warm hands envelope the cold weak fingers. Grateful eyes meet, one set in warm appreciation, the other in frightful debt. The breath is released, the grip is relinquished, and the weight is lifted.
   Placed on the mantle, the box doesn’t look heavy. From afar it seems too small to hold a lifetime. My mind tries to disperse the weight that had registered in the three minutes of experience, when I held 60 years of love.

My brain sneezed. Bless me.

I hate myself when I finish talking. Not because I want to talk more, but because I wish I would talk less.

My husband says I am a professional bubble popper. If you have an idea, a dream, a thought of something grandiose…tell me and I will pop your bubble. And usually be right.

I bought a T-Shirt the other day. It said I might be wrong…but I doubt it. That sums it up.

My brain seems to think faster than other peoples do. I make links in conversations with the piles of useless scraps of information floating in my synapses. When they are triggered, they join and make sense. Not just make sense, but really, they make more sense than they should. I don’t know how, or why.

When I start a task, I am not aware that I am doing it. My brain kicks into gear. I think, I think, I think then all of a sudden there it is. A cohesive thought that gosh darn it, makes sense.

I think my brain is weird. It thinks, of course, but it also goes loopy once in a while. It won’t shut off, or shut up.

I think about what I just said. I think about what I just wrote. I think about what I just did. I think about what I should do. What I could do. What I would do. What I didn’t do. I think about what others are thinking. I think about how the world works, doesn’t work, could work. It just keeps going.

Everything I see looks like an opportunity. I want to see it again. I want to try that. I could do that. I could do it better.   Have you ever thought of doing it like this? What about trying it like that? I was thinking that you could try it like this? What would happen if you did it like that?

Evaluate. Improve. Review. Feedback. Learn. Watch. Suggest. Hint.
Talented. Intelligent. Smart. Savvy. Wise. Experienced. Innovative. Original. Creative. Hard-working. Team player. Inspiring. Logical.
Glory hog. Self-centered. Opportunistic. Know-it-all. Big mouth.

Do I make sense? Am I talking out my ass? Does anyone else notice this? Would anyone else say anything?

I think I know what I am talking about. It make sense to me, the dots all connect by themselves without me even realizing it.

What do I want to do? What am I supposed to do? What do you want me to do? What should I do?

I think some days I want to learn just to be able to figure myself out. Someday, I will find that one book, hear that one lecture, talk to that one person who will tell me what path I am on. That I am not alone on it, and that others before me were successful at achieving something by it.

Success, what a mysterious word. When are you successful. Afterwards, is there not just another goal that needs to be fulfilled? How are people happy now, are they really fulfilled and content to be where they are? I cannot understand that state of just being. Not wanting to learn more, do more, meet more, think more. What an alien concept to not strive for something, for anything.

Is there anything less than your best? Is there such a thing or is the mediocre your best at that time in that context?

Context is immeasurable. It is perspective. It is the individual reality. Without it, nothing exists, for it is all in relation to another.

The apple is red. But, is it really? Is my red your red? Is it not a blend of greens, yellows, browns, whites, blacks, greys? Maybe that is part of the answer. If you train your eye to see only red, then you do not notice the greens and yellows. It is simply red. But to a mind that is forever looking closely, analyzing, evaluating, judging, comparing; there is no such thing as red.

Perspective is how you see it. Context is why you see it. Wisdom is how you interpret it. Happiness is how you deal with it. Challenge is how you make the experience better. Success, well, maybe it is just being able to notice it in the first place.

This is my brain.  This is my brain without drugs.  (You shoulda seen it in high school!)

Five seconds.

My back slid down the wall as my legs turned into useless canes. My heart exploded and was crushed at the same time. The crushing sensation was like a blow to my body. I kept sucking in air but the jagged spasms of my chest wouldn’t let enough in. My eyes blurred and overflowed. My lips contorted into thin lines of down-turned anguish. I felt for the floor with a limp arm before I hit the cold tile.

My hand clenched the note, grinding it into itself. Maybe if I wrung it tight enough, it would imprison the words and stop them from becoming thoughts of the past, the future. The air escaped from me, deflating the rage, pain, denial, defeat. The crumpled ball rolled from my hand. My shoulders slumped, every muscle numb. My head lolled to my chest as my open eyes saw nothing.

The air was siphoned back in with a calmness of a world that seemed to have stopped turning. The tile was covered in patterns of grey, brown and auburn lines. The raised edges of colour overlapped, twisted and turned. The continuation of design was endless. The possibilities of randomness were innumerable. The mind’s eye could get lost in the shapes, avoiding the thoughts.  Thoughts.  My eyes twitched back to my hand.  The paper wadded up beside it.  Thoughts.  Pulled up knees wrapped in cold arms trying to keep the leeching thoughts from forming a reality that was...that is.  Dammit.  Question not what was on the paper, know instead that the paper made me who I am today.

Why I do it all over again

Weather news song song snooze song song yawn stretch shower one boy two boy three boy four pants shirt socks sweater? just in case breakfast toast cereal yogourt juice sandwich Ziploc fruit snack note from school sign money hurry up toothbrush facecloth shoes coats hats mitts its that time again school bag lunch bag guitar case car seat belt have a good day traffic Tim’s construction babysitter diapers medicine for a runny nose car parking glass elevator good morning email telephone mail to do coffee ahhhhh meeting report meeting presentation good job thanks meeting delegate meeting decision meeting long time no see how are you? email telephone mail to do coffee ahhhhh babysitter one babysitter two babysitter three volleyball four traffic milk butter eggs one candy each that’s it outside leaves worms sandbox swing fall tears boo-boo kiss it all better hot chocolate homework cook eat clean homework I have no idea ask your teacher bath pyjama teeth daddy’s coming to get you play tickle one tickle two tickle three run away four snicker giggle guffaw snort blanket teddy once upon a time forehead kiss kiss kiss kiss eyes closed lights off don’t make me go back there toys lego cars sock computer bills email I miss you too facebook blog kill some zombies yawn stretch chit chat how was your day dear? shoulder rub chit chat green eyes smiling I love his eyes sigh dishes note list don’t forget tuck blanket cold feet pyjama bed warm hug cuddle g’night luv.

Canadian Bounty

Standing in the mist of the ocean, looking back towards a life that would soon be more than the proverbial million miles away, the woman held an orange: a gift upon boarding. Smelling the spicy peel of the long forbidden fruit, she dug her fingernail along its edge, not to peel it, but to mingle the scent with the salty air. She closed her eyes, and let the ship lull her into a familiar reverie of romance and adventure.

The woman was upon the decks of the famous RMS Queen Mary: a luxury cruise liner that had been sailing the North Atlantic Ocean since 1936. Built by John Brown and Co. she was designed to be the first of Cunard line for two-week express service. Christened on September 26, 1934 the traditionally liner was one of the fastest and most luxurious sailing the ocean at the time. There were grand ballrooms, salons, and even an indoor swimming pool among its berth. Now, there were no more dancers, no more musicians, no more whiskey and cigars in the staterooms.

In August of 1939, the wood panelling had been removed. The deck chairs stored. The silverware and linens packed away for safekeeping. The art-deco muted as the grand chandeliers were lowered. The last injury was to replace the passenger list with thousands of troops. The RMS Queen Mary would have at times seen over 15,000 soldiers, replacing her original 2139 guest capacity. The boasting of speed as a liner was not lost, as she found herself clipping across the Atlantic without convoy or escort. Her speed and grey camouflage earned her the nickname of “The Grey Ghost”. She was a soldier at war.

A silence had finally fallen on September 2, 1945. Almost a year later, the RMS Queen Mary held the other casualties of war, over two thousand of England’s daughters. With nickel bands on their fingers, and many swollen bellies and crying mouths, the liner left Liverpool August 4th, 1946 to land in Halifax seven days later. This was one of the last scheduled war efforts for the ship: to deliver England’s bounty to their awaiting soldier-grooms on Canadian soil.

The cabin doors muffled the common echoes of the voyage: tears for what was left behind; nerves emptying stomachs; wind blowing the whispers of Canadian dreams. Walking through the halls, the woman tried her best not to read the scrawls left by thousands of forlorn hands. She concentrated instead on the orange in her hand given to her upon arrival onboard. After over six years of rationing: one egg a week, an ounce and a half of butter, fruit was an unheard of luxury. She could still feel the scars on her fingers from weeks of picking rosehip buds that were to be boiled into syrup for babies. She couldn’t bring herself to do more than smell the gift. Then came the Canadian bounty.

What a land of plenty this Canada must be! It overwhelmed the senses one at a time. First were the sounds of giddy children, women gasping in awe. A glimpse around the corner gave way to an impressionist buffet of colours and textures. The salty air was whipped from lungs and replaced with heavenly aromas, tantalizing and rich. The plates were burdened by hoarding hands that couldn’t help but grab in case the offerings were reneged. Hungry mouths swallowed without letting the tastes register the long forgotten pleasures of such a sinful pleasure: food.

The hall was alive with the humming of mouths, in a frenzy of forgotten pleasure. Then it hit. Hard. One pause was all it took to cause the emaciated systems to react. The rolling waves, the frayed nerves, the morning sickness and gluttony sent many of the women scurrying to the rails, greenly cabin-bound for the rest of the journey.

By the time she made her way into the dining hall, tables upon tables of food lined the walls. Her plate was modest, afraid to spill anything piled too high. Her pace was slowed by the sheer emotion of the moment, savouring the joy of reuniting with a long lost friend. For the remainder of the voyage, she sat among the staggered seats, emptied by way of the rocking sea. For seven nights, she held close a single pungent pleasure. Out on the deck, by the light of the Northern stars, she peeled an orange and dreamed of her Canadian Blue Boy.

~ A note from Yuk-Sem: This text was written in summary of an interview that I had with my Grand-mother, Margaret Milburn Lacey Brunelle. She shared many stories with me about her time in England during World War II and how she married her Canadian beau. The beginning of her married life was often punctuated by stories about food, due largely to the rationing in England at the time. She described to me her voyage on the Queen Mary: “Oh my Lord! The food was all from Canada; it was supposedly rationed, but it was a laugh! All this food, with all these war-brides and children. There were so many seasick…I never got seasick so I had a grand time!”

From that premise, with other bits and pieces of information both from my Grand-ma and from history books, I pieced together this brief glimpse into her life.

White Picket Fence

I love the thrill, the high. I can’t get enough. Constant cravings. I try to stop, but I need more. Temptation. Excess. Desire.

Ice cream and pickles? What came to mind for you? Drugs, alcohol, food, material, adrenaline, love, success…

I love the thrill, the high. I can’t get enough. Constant cravings. I try to stop, but I need more. Temptation. Excess. Desire.

There comes a day when we realize that there is no white picket fence to mark the boundaries of our dreams. We are taught that there are no limits; we have every possibility in the world to make ourselves happy. Reach for the sky, build on your successes, love like there is no tomorrow. Have you ever questioned these ideals that we are fed? How do they make society better? How do they make you better?

When I told my son that he could do anything, that his happiness depended only on him, he looked at me and asked, “When will I know? When will I know that I am happy, that my glass is full and I am okay now?” I thought about it, and I couldn’t answer. There has always been something missing, something more to get, to do. Another goal, another dream. Isn’t that the point? Isn’t that what we call living?

Then I started to question my motivations. I wanted…I always wanted! More, better, bigger, not yet, not satisfied. Never happy with today, I work for a better tomorrow. Today is not the result of my life, it is just a stepping stone. When will we give ourselves permission to live our lives, today? To be happy with who I am, what I have, what I’ve done…today.

I have churned the idea to mush, and it always comes down to gluttony.
It is our new hero of success. Don’t think so? Think again. How do you measure success, status, security? What I have, what I’ve done, how much I have. How much more do you need to get there? There it is, never satisfied: gluttony.

Gluttony is not an all-you-can-eat buffet on a Wednesday night or the puking feeling after Thanksgiving supper at Aunt Martha’s. But they do exemplify the concept. We have needs as humans. We can satisfy our needs, but are we ever really satisfied? Gluttony is losing sight of moderation and indulging in pleasure instead of necessity. The pleasure is attained by excess. We consume more than is required, we want more than our fair share.
We want more time, more space, more money, more “stuff”.
The key term is “more", but WHEN is more too much? How are we to measure when we have reached our happy medium? Is there such a thing? When do I get to that line, that fence that allows me to say: I am good enough, I am happy enough, my cup is full enough. But do I really want to get there?
Aha!  There is the Montréal steak rub.

Are you up to the challenge? Can you live in moderation, exerting self-control and vigilance to satisfy needs without feeding wants? Be happy with who you are today, with what you have, with what you have done. Is that fence a line that you don’t mind not crossing?

Is gluttony our enemy? Or does it just have a bad rap? Where would you be without the drive to attain more, to go further, to reach higher? Do we just want to eat to feed our bodies, or do we want to enjoy the caramel pecan cheesecake drizzled with a raspberry coulis?

There might come a day when we realize that there is a white picket fence to mark the boundaries of our dreams, but from where I am sitting, the grass still looks greener on the other side. There is a “for sale” sign on the lot and hey, it’s hot outside and I’ve always wanted a pool.

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The way ADD sounds to me.

He’s such a space cadet. He always lies. He’s always making shit up. He blurts out weird things all the time. He won’t share. He won’t do his part of the work. Never mind, he doesn’t fit in. He is just a geek. He tries too hard. Yeah, what ever dude.

He is just a space cadet. He won’t pay attention. He doesn’t care. He just won’t pay attention. He is lazy. He doesn’t listen. I tell you, he just won’t pay attention. He doesn’t think of anyone but himself. He doesn’t think of his friends. He blurts out things without thinking. He does it on purpose. He doesn’t appreciate anything. He doesn’t take care of anything. He broke it on purpose. Just don’t let him do anything then. Don’t get it for him, he’ll just break it anyways. He ignores me. Hey you, hey you, hey, you! See, he just won’t pay attention. I swear, that kid!

I’m such a space cadet. Shit. Sorry. I forgot. Sorry. I didn’t know. Sorry. Oh. Sorry. I didn’t think of that. Sorry. Umm, I dunno, I just thought. Sorry. What? Uh, well, sorry. I just can’t get it. I just don’t get it. I’m just stupid I guess. I’m a loser. I’m a failure. I hate myself. I am sorry.

You just have to discipline him. You’re not doing it right. Make him sit and do it. Give him severe consequences. Take it away. Ground him. Just don’t let him get any more rewards then. Yell louder. Ignore him, give him a taste of his own medicine. Give him more responsibility. Give him more consequences. Watch him like a hawk. Treat him like the baby he is acting like. Put him to bed earlier. Stop giving him so much sugar. Don’t let him drink pop. Don’t let him eat red dye.

I’m trying. I don’t know what to do. I’ve tried everything. How many times do I have to tell him? I am always waiting for him to do something to make me ground him. I hate yelling. I hate telling him over, and over, and over, and over. What did I do? What am I not doing? What should I do? What can I do? I can’t let him go there. I can’t let him do that. I can’t leave him there. I can’t invite them over. Watch him. Check five times a night to make sure he wasn’t too sad, too hurt, too frustrated, too determined to stop it himself. I am scared of when there will be no more yelling. No more screaming. How he says he will make it better for everyone. To make it all make sense. To make it all go away.

I am tired. I am sad. I am frustrated. I am so mad. So, so mad. But at myself. I am supposed to be able to fix this. I am supposed to be able to be a good parent. I am Mother, teacher of life, fixer of problems, kisser of all boo-boos, hugger of all tears, all-knowing presenter of wisdom. I don’t know what to do. I’m trying.

I love you. You are so good at that! You are so good at helping. One thing at a time. Let me help you with that. Look at the list. Did you remember this? What should you do next? You did such a great job. Look at how you learnt that so fast! You always try so hard. Thank you for doing that so quickly. Thanks for finishing. Good job on that homework. You look like you are so happy. You look like you had so much fun. Good effort! Don’t forget! I love you.

Don’t give up. It’s not your fault. All I ask of you is to try. Remember to help yourself. Know your skills. Know what you can take on, not all at once. Write it down. Make a list. Help yourself make things easier. Make it work in your favour. Take away the distractions. Do it one thing at a time. Remind me sometimes that you are trying. Remind yourself that you can do this. Oh yeah, and take your pill.

Ritalin. Concerta. Strattera. I can’t believe you’re drugging your kid. You just want a quick way out. Your doctor must be a quack. Sure, drug him up so he doesn’t know what is going on. What a cop out of parenting. You just didn’t try hard enough. Your setting him up to be on that forever. He’ll never learn now. He’ll never grow out of it. How do you expect him to learn to cope when you are giving him an easy way out. Everyone is turning to drugs. Bad, bad Mother.

It hurts that you don’t believe me. But when it comes down to it, I just care about getting through right here, right now. I just care about seeing him smile. I just care about having a day without yelling, or hurt feelings. No more yelling. No more screaming. No more hating. No more blaming. No more deceptions. No more guessing. His smile, I love that smile. I love his happiness. I love seeing him enjoy life. I enjoy seeing him succeed. I love seeing him love being - him. I like knowing that now, there will be a tomorrow. About having a day where I feel like I am Mother, teacher of life, fixer of problems, kisser of all boo-boos, hugger of all tears, all-knowing presenter of wisdom, and that he thinks so too.