People in my life are going through big changes. All these changes remind me of what’s important. It’s not stuff. This is a poem I wrote called “Divested.”
Listen to me read this poem here:
Me at the Lakeview Cemetery about to conduct a tour. I like cemeteries. They’re a solid reminder of what matters.
Invested:
Dig a hole,
Build a house,
Or buy a house.
Big screen TV,
Recreational vehicle,
A boat to tow behind.
Renovate:
New cupboards,
New floors.
Fix up the bathroom,
Replace the light fixtures.
New dishes,
New furniture,
A beautiful, sombre statue in a Savannah, Georgia cemetery.
I’d been playing telephone tag with the Canadian Government health survey people for three weeks when, finally, one evening they caught me at home and available to talk.
It had been a long day and I was exhausted. I was looking at the big picture of my life and feeling a bit discouraged. In short, I think I was feeling a little sorry for myself and feeling dread at the approach of winter, feeling that I’m aging and feeling that I was in a rut. I was happy for a good excuse to sit in my comfy chair and answer an extensive list of yes and no questions.
Listen to me read this post:
Crates of apples at a BC road-side fruitstand.
The interviewer on the other end of the line was kind, patient, and had a pretty good sense of humour. She started off by asking if I suffer from any number of horrific diseases. As she listed them one by one and I replied “no” to each, I started feeling better. Next, she wanted to know about medications I was on. Again, a lengthy list, and again all my answers were “no.” That feeling of wellness just kept on rising.
Then with a very personal line of questioning, she caused me to fondly remember my first foray into physical romance. It’s been so long that I’d almost forgotten. How sweet to be reminded of those long-ago awkward intimacies even if by a complete stranger representing the Canadian Government.
Next, the interviewer asked about my diet and I felt a smug seed of self-satisfaction begin to grow as I answered her questions about my consumption deep-fried foods, red meat, leafy greens, and colourful vegetables. That seed continued to swell as she asked about the frequency and duration of my typical weekly exercise. By the end of this segment, I wondered if I should be entering some sort of Iron Man competition. (I shouldn’t. I would die, slowly and painfully, and with an audience.)
More fresh fruit in BC.
I was then questioned about my ability to afford health and dental care. Did I ever not have access to medication because I couldn’t afford it? Do I put off visiting the dentist because I don’t have the money? Do I brush and floss regularly? How often do I visit the doctor and the dentist? How is my access to the health services I need? Now I was feeling just plain lucky.
She wanted to know if I ever worried about having enough money to buy food and I felt a tad selfish. There were those times, but they are so far behind me that I’d forgotten to consider all the folks for whom this is a daily concern.
Peppers in Pike Place market in Seattle, WA.
By the time we were through and I’d hung up the phone, I saw the world through new and grateful eyes. Suddenly, I no longer saw myself as boring, old, and tired but as healthy and wealthy and virtually exploding with good opportunities to live life well. I guess what they say is true: There’s nothing like a forty minute Government of Canada telephone survey to give your heart a lift.
Student desk and dictionary at the Hines Creek Museum.
Hi there everyone! I hope you’re having a good start to a fresh, new week. I’m re-posting this post today because as another school year approaches, I’m missing my identity as a teacher again! When will this let up? I’ve got a ton of other interests and a lot of things to keep me occupied, and yet I cling and cling to this image of myself.
I examine my teaching years through a realistic lens, I remember the stress that led to the soul-sucking insomnia. I remember the fear of criticism from self and others. I see clearly the hours of pointless meetings and the children that I didn’t know how to reach.
Teaching was hard, but letting go of a long-held identity has its challenges, too.
If you haven’t done so already, please consider following my blog right here on WordPress or signing up to have my posts show up directly in your email’s inbox. Either way, I’d love to have your support! Take care and have a great Tuesday. ~ Lori
Recently I contacted someone I’d worked with for years to let him know that I’m available as a substitute teacher. My ego was deflated when he said, “I wasn’t aware that you weren’t teaching full time.”
Really? Wasn’t aware? To me, it seemed that this guy and I were at every meeting and at every conference together. I saw him often.
I’ve been out of the local school system for over a year now and this former colleague never even noticed. I would’ve been happier if his response had been, “I wondered where you were!”
Listen to me read this post:
The one-room schoolhouse in the community of Green Island.
But he didn’t wonder. My presence or absence didn’t affect him much. Most of the time, we don’t notice what our passing acquaintances are doing. We’re happy to see them or to hear from them when we do, but beyond those moments, we don’t give others much thought.
It can be a bit of a letdown, realizing how infrequently others notice us. On the other hand, this realization can be very freeing. Over the course of my life I’ve spent way too much time worrying about what others might think of me and my actions. In a way it’s nice to discover that they barely think of me at all.
When I decided to resign from my teaching position in December of 2016 to attend university for a year, I was concerned about how people might react. In the end, people simply congratulated me or thanked me or said nothing, and then very quickly, we all moved on. It’s what we do. We keep on going.
Another desk at the museum in Hines Creek north of Fairview, Alberta where I grew up.
A skilled young teacher stepped into my former position to start her own career, and I began studying writing and editing. Surprise, surprise. I’d made a change and the world didn’t stop turning. In fact, my decision to change benefited two lives, mine and the new teacher’s.
Change is scary because we don’t like uncertainty. It’s not comfortable. That’s why we plan and try to control the things yet to happen. But no matter how much we schedule or plot or analyze, it’s impossible to accurately predict the outcome of anything we do. We can chart and graph until our eyes dry up and fall out of our heads. All our planning won’t stop the rain from raining or the snow from falling.
Life is uncertain. That’s its nature, and we’re forced to work with this uncertainty in which we exist. That’s reality.
I had a desk like this in Grade One! I remember that heavy drawer.
Now that I’ve just returned to the classroom as a sub, I realize that my big career change was no big deal. I can tell this by the reactions that span, “Oh, you were gone?” to “Welcome back!” Neither of these reactions indicates an earth-shattering event.
This career change and its consequences have shifted the way I view making larger life changes. Big decisions aren’t as daunting now. I worry less about what others will think because I’ve got proof that they won’t think much about what I decide either way.
And if they do consider my actions, their considerations will be brief, like the shadow of a flying bird passing over the ground. “That’s dumb” or “That’s smart” or “Maybe I should try that.”
Others’ reactions to our actions don’t last long and they sure don’t matter much. What does matter is our acceptance of uncertainty and our willingness to change, to take a risk. We can’t know where any path will lead us. All I know for sure is that the view from the bottom of my deep rut was way less open than the wider view I got when I climbed out.
Last summer, I heard a loud persistent peeping under the open living room window. There in the grass was a fledgling robin on the cusp of being old enough to fly. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if he’s able to fly today. The fledgling’s feathers were still a bit fluffy, its red breast was dotted with white and the young bird was nearly the same size as its mother who was plucking earthworms from the lawn and feeding them to her nearly-adult offspring.
Listen to me read this post:
Having a life of my own, I went off to live it, but I noticed after a while some louder, more frantic chirping outside the window. I peeked out and the baby robin was still there, but its mother was nowhere to be seen. The mostly adult bird hopped around and finally flew up the short distance to sit between the two big red flowers in the front step planter. The more the fledgling peeped, the more I wanted to interfere, to shelter it, to bring it inside where I knew the little bird would be safe from danger.
A flicker looking for worms in the grass.
That’s when I remembered something important: the young robin is not mine. It’s not up to me to manage its survival or its destiny. It’s not my job to teach it to hunt its own food and to fly a bit further than the height of my front step. Outside of actively trying to harm it or its habitat, it’s not even my job to protect it. In nature, living things often eat living things. The robin may survive and it may not, and my interference could really mess up its chances instead of improving them despite my best intentions.
Later in the day I received an unexpected phone call from someone I love. It was a courtesy call to let me know of a big decision that he’d made on the spot, one that would affect my loved one and his loved ones for the rest of their lives. I wanted so badly to interfere, to question judgment, to counsel against haste, and warn of regret.
A springtime robin on my lawn.
That’s when I remembered something important: he is loved by me, but he is not mine. It’s not up to me to manage his life or decide his destiny. It’s not my job to choose his work or his spouse or to raise his children. Outside of actively trying to harm him or his family, it’s not even my job to protect him. I would, of course, if I could. In life, there are challenges to overcome and joys to experience. My loved one may have a happy life or he may not, and my interference could really mess up his chances at happiness instead of improving them despite my best intentions.
It can be awfully easy to confuse love with ownership, to believe that because we love someone they should do what we think is best for them. We may be right about what’s best and we may be wrong. Either way, it’s beside the point. The people we love will do what they’re going to do. If we disapprove, they’ll do it out of our sight. If we disagree, they won’t broach the subject again. In short, we can’t control anyone’s actions or emotions but our own.
I don’t know about you, but when I focus in on me, this one flawed, miraculous human being, I find enough to keep me very busy. When I look closely at myself, suddenly I’m less interested in judging others or in trying to change their behaviour and choices. I have my own life to live. I am granted the ability to decide, to work, to think critically, to create, to feel what I feel, and to experience this gift of being alive for this short time in this sprawling cosmos.
Same bird, different view.
It’s not my responsibility to control anyone else because I don’t own anyone else. The great freeing news that comes along with this realization is that no one owns me, either. They can disapprove of my actions and I’ll act elsewhere. They can disagree with my ideas and I’ll stop sharing them, but they won’t change my mind. In short, I can’t control anyone’s actions or feelings but my own. It’s no less of a burden, running my own life instead of trying to run others’. Unlike trying to change the direction of the wind, though, ruling myself can actually lead to positive change in me and maybe, just maybe, that’s how we change the world.
Wow, we live in a noisy world! Even where I live, in the relative peace and quiet of a rural village, there’s enough noise to fill the silence. During the warmer months, there are lawnmowers, weed whackers, and lawn tractors buzzing away as everyone tries to keep up with the growing grass. The sounds of hammers hammering and circular saws cutting, coyotes yipping, and cattle lowing are other summer sounds.
Listen to me read this post:
Fall colours in my backyard.
Then the snow falls and the sounds change a little. They get nearer. Where I live, there are always train whistles blowing accompanied by the steady thrum of wheels on rails. During the winter, suddenly it seems as if that train is now running up and down the sidewalk in front of my house. The train’s horn blast carries more easily through the crisp, clear winter air. The sound of trucks out on the highway becomes closer, as well, and I can almost feel those freighters moving across the foot of my bed in the dawn shadows.
Twenty years ago, I wouldn’t have noticed these sounds. Twenty years ago, I craved a little background sound, some white noise, something to assuage the threat of silence. I used to fall asleep with the radio on. Now I would shoot a radio at close range for playing while I’m trying to sleep. Now that I’m older, instead of warding off quiet, I find myself craving it and seeking it out.
Horses by the road where I walk.
There’s just something so sweet about silence. It’s as if when I’m quiet, when the world’s quiet, I can see everything a little clearer. I can see the solutions to problems or, even better, I can see that there weren’t any problems after all. In the silence, my mind slows and my racing thoughts take a break from their running. The silence refreshes me like nothing else.
Unfortunately, my thoughts don’t always crave the quiet I yearn for. Sometimes when I find a corner of silence and settle down into it, those thoughts start talking louder and faster. It’s a habit, I know, from all those years spent in trying to fill up silence with sound, with activity and with thoughts.
Autumn reflections in a water trough.
I need to sit in the stillness and reassure my thoughts, “Thank you for trying to help me rid myself of quiet. I appreciated your support in years past. Only now, I’ve changed. I actually want the quiet. You can help me out now, just in a different way. You be quiet, too.”
So let the mowers mow and the coyotes yip and the train whistles blow. I love where I live and I enjoy the sounds that make the place what it is. But give me times of silence as well, spaces in which I don’t have to think or decide or judge. Give me times of quiet rest to focus and to consider what really matters and what is just bogging me down. Then, when I return to sound, to the busyness, I will be refreshed and ready to take in all of this rich, noisy life.
Some moments separate us from each other and some bring us together. Here’s one that drew me closer to someone who had been a stranger.
There were so many moments of beauty during this latest trip to Mexico. We rode the city bus most days. One time – and I think this is customary – I followed an old man, bent and wrinkled with time, and carrying a cane. As he slowly stepped down from the bus, he glanced behind him. Seeing me, he stopped and extended his hand to me. I grasped it, and our eyes met. “Gracias, senor.” He helped me down from the bus and smiled a mostly-toothless, all-gracious smile. Thank you for that kindness that even right now is making my eyes tear up. Thank you, sir, for that beautiful moment.
I thought of this post today because I am in charge of feeding the juvenile magpie that my neighbour rescued. The little guy is moving around a lot more today and is eating very well. Soon he’ll be old enough to survive on his own. Here’s a video of the rescued magpie singing its melodious song:
And here’s a re-post of Compassion for a Magpie
A magpie up on my garage’s eaves trough.
As you may or may not know, depending on where you live, a [black-billed] magpie is a black and white bird with long tail feathers which looks a bit like a crow. When the sun shines on the magpie, its dark feathers are iridescent, appearing to be blue, purple and green all at once. The magpie doesn’t have a sweet, musical voice. It screeches and chases songbirds, even eating other birds’ eggs when the opportunity comes along. It flies behind cats, cawing loudly and snipping at their tails.
Listen to me read this post:
Around here, anyway, magpies are not well-liked. We have a few in our yard for a couple of reasons. They enjoy the suet I put out for other birds, and they are extremely fond of the eggshells they find in the compost bin. Both the suet and the shells are valuable sources of protein. There are also quite a few tall trees in our neighbourhood which provide excellent shelter and nesting habitat. And so, for now, the magpies are here to stay.
A sunflower in my backyard – a memory of warmer days.
Just yesterday, one magpie of a mating pair was injured. It lay in the grass struggling to lift its head while the other circled about, cawing and seemingly urging the other to stand or to fly.
I could feel the uninjured bird’s distress at the situation of its mate. The healthy bird was clearly agitated, quite frantic, and I thought “Not so different than us.”
There’s no feeling more frustrating than that feeling of helplessness and useless restlessness in the face of suffering – especially the suffering of someone we love. As I watched the magpies in this difficult circumstance, I recognized and understood their suffering as no different from my own.
A magpie perched strategically over the compost bins below.
I couldn’t watch nature take its course, and I don’t know for sure if the injured magpie went on to live or to die. I looked away and closed the curtains in response to the stab of pain in my heart. It was silly, after all, to feel so deeply the pain of another – especially one so despised and at times so despicable. What did I need that for when I already have enough sorrow of my own?
It’s true that we cannot easily take on all the sorrows of the world, nor can we single-handedly cure all the injustices, illnesses, and injuries. But the magpies made me consider that perhaps if I could just open my heart a bit wider to see and hold the suffering of others that I may be better equipped to deal with my own. If I can accept the magpies’ suffering – both the injury and the distress – then perhaps I can also better accept my own suffering and that of all living creatures. With a more open heart, perhaps next time I won’t need to look away.
I’d been playing telephone tag with the Canadian Government health survey people for three weeks when, finally, one evening they caught me at home and available to talk.
Lori Knutson 