Christmas Lights, Part Two

When I a wrote the previous post, I was gazing through my window on a beautiful dark evening. Now it is the harsh light of day, and I have learned a valuable life lesson.

This morning I unpacked my outdoor lights. The first string wouldn't light up. I cut my finger on the second strand; apparently something heavy was tossed on top of them sometime over the last year, because the bottom of the bag was littered with tiny pieces of glass. I didn't even bother looking at the third or fourth string, I just got myself a garbage bag and got them ready for the curb.

Mario entered the room at this point, I explained what I was doing and he said, "Look, just leave them, I'll look at them tomorrow."

And that exact moment I felt myself take another incremental step towards becoming A Grown-Up, and I laughed aloud. I'm sorry, I am almost forty years old, and my days of sitting cross legged on the floor all afternoon, swapping out a hundred tiny bulbs to find the problem, are OVER. I may have had the patience (and lack of bank balance) to do that at 24, but at 37 I say, "That's why Jesus gave me a debit card."

The lesson isn't that getting older has given me more money (ha!), but that getting older her given me more perspective, and as crazy as it may sound, more of a sense of self worth. My time is worth far too much to fritter it away on a futile mission, when there's a Home Hardware store five blocks away.

So now I'm going to set up my Christmas tree. It better not piss me off, or it'll be on the curb, too!

Christmas lights

Tonight at 5 pm, I drove home in the dark....guess I better to get used to that.

I love Canadian winters, truly I do. I love the "time stands still" flavour of frozen, silent winter days. I love the quiet beauty of a gentle snowfall. And I particulary love a violent storm on a day when I know we don't have to leave the house. Can there be anything better than looking out at a blizzard and truly appreciating the solid warmth and comfort we all take for granted?

And, oh, the Christmas lights. Because it is still November, there aren't many illuminated houses yet, but I also know there will be more each day. Silky multicoloured lights in a sea of frozen black.

My heart swells, and my eyes well, with each twinkly home. Because the homeowners reap no benefit from bedecking their homes; they come home and the decorative lights are off. Then they go inside, where they can not possibly enjoy them, and turn the lights on.

Christmas lights aren't about making yourself happy, they're about making other people happy. Each day of this season, my heart is filled to overflowing by people I will never meet, who only want to make me happy.

I'm glad I am one of them, and I'm glad my home sparkles in the dark.

Part time Wisdom

Allow me to begin by saying that I enjoy my full time job very, very much. It can be mindbogglingly stressful on occasion, but that's part of my industry and the path I chose.

In the spring, I also took a part time job with the Statistics Canada, to work on the census, for a few reasons. One, it sounded interesting; two, it seemed like a good way to pay for our vacation; and three, it was only for four months. It ended up being a very satisfying experience, although I certainly had my share of discouraging evenings. Apparently not everyone is thrilled to hear from the government, and they aren't shy about telling you.

The census project ended in July, and I went on my merry way. Then last month, they called me to see if I wanted to work on a new, three month project, and I jumped at the chance. This project seemed even more interesting, and the pay was even better than it had been the first time. (Let's just say that, as far as part time jobs go, it's sweeeeeeet.) For the past few weeks, I have been contacting Canadians and asking them to participate in our survey, much the same way I called people during the census.

That's the preamble. Here's the point.

I have learned two important things about human nature through all this. First and foremost, I have learned that people react VERY diffrently when the government asks them to do something (like now), and when the government tells they must do something. (Census is legally mandatory in Canada, I assume this is also the case in other countries.) Don't get me wrong, I spoke to lovely, lovely people during the census....but I also took a hell of a lot of abuse. On this project, which is completely voluntary, it's like people are falling over themselves for the chance to participate. I can't believe how many people have said, "Ooooo, I was hoping you'd call!!"

Got that? Asking people, reaction good. Telling people, reaction not so good. I'm pretty sure we can all find a way to incorporate that in to our daily lives. I know, I know, it sounds incredibly basic, but let me ask you this: the last time you wanted your kid to make his bed, did you ask him or tell him? What would have happened if you had tried it the other way?

The other thing I found out is how much work satisfaction truly affects your level of fatigue. Again, I had some really good nights during the census, but I had some total stinkers, too. (and even during the good nights, you'd get at least one bad call). I would get home at 10 pm, tired to the bone. At the time, I chalked up this exhaustion to the fact that, between my full time job and then tearing over to the part time one, I was working from 8:30 am to 10:00pm.

Now, I am working from 8:00 am to midnight, sixteen hours, and I'm not tired. I love, love, love what I am doing and I have nothing but a thirst to go back tomorrow and do it all again.

How can you bring this lesson in to your life? Ask yourself how you feel at the end of your day. Are you happy and looking forward to tomorrow, or are you exhausted and numb? Believe me, being tired actually doesn't have much to do with how many hours you put in, as long as you are passionate about it.

Think about that.

Ok, none of this has been written very well, or with descriptive passages, symbolism, or well turned phrases. But sometimes you just have to put on the page what comes in to your heart.

Hey look, there's lesson number three.

Stuff

Do you remember the old adage, "A place for everything, and everything in its place" ?

Our mothers and grandmothers would blithely offer up this little gem as the answer to all of our housekeeping needs. Like so many of the things they told us, this was all just so much well meant brainwashing. It's what their mothers told them, and they were duty bound to pass it on to us.

Why did no one ever tell me, "A place for some things, and throw everything else the hell out" ?

My love and I live simply. Not only do we not want to keep up with the Joneses, we're not entirely sure who they are. We are not obsessed with acquiring things. So how come things keep acquiring us?

My house is clean and relatively tidy, but it is over run with things. Things we love, things we tolerate, things that we no longer even see because we are so used to them, things we have no use for but may come in handy someday. Things. Everywhere.

What would happen if I came home from work tomorrow, and 70% of the things in my home were no longer there? (For this exercise, assume 70% is now gone because the De-Clutter Fairy stopped by, and not because some guy named Ricky is now pawning my jewelry and DVD player down town.)

My question actually isn't rhetorical, I want to know. How much stuff do two people actually NEED? Clearly it is far less than what we own, but where is that golden mean? How do you decide what is essential as a talisman to your past and personality, and what is extraneous? For that matter, how many ten year old T-shirts does one woman truly need? And why, when I look at my home with a purger's eye, does my gaze only fall of the things that belong to my love? Am I truly that selfish and misguided?

Or is it simply that the sheer number of objects in my line of sight has addled my brain?

I feel a purge in my future.

Thirty Seven

Over the years, I heard the story of my birth many, many times from many people. Far less frequently, I heard the story of why I lived.

On the day I was born, things went very wrong for me in the delivery room. Among other things, I was then placed in an incubator for eight days. My young parents were besides themselves; I was their first born, long cherished baby, and they couldn't even touch me.

And then, my mother told me, came the night when the doctors finally told them I wouldn't live.

My family's ancestral motto is "More fierce than proud", which essentially means we will viciously fight to the death for the things we belive in and the people we love. So.

My father did not take the news that I was dying well. He got angry. But not at the doctor.

He went to the hospital chapel, closed the door, and (as my mother so aptly put it) got it on with God. He yelled, he railed, and finally he said, "Not her. You can take me if you want, but you can't have HER. My life for hers. " And there was a flash of light.

The next thing he knew, he woke up flat on his back on the floor of the chapel. He went back to my mother, and found out that I was going to live.

From that day forward, he was always convinced he would die young. It didn't worry him, he just knew that was his end of the bargain.

I first heard this story from my mother when I was a teenager, and then somewhat regularly from her in the years that followed. My father, on the other hand, always told me the standard story, that I was desperately ill at birth, wasn't expected to live, but after eight days they finally said I would.

I only asked him about the whole story once. About ten years ago, I told him everything Mummy had told me, much as I have just told you, and asked him if it was true.

He looked at me sharply, and after a few seconds said "Yes" in a terse voice, and changed the subject. Clearly this was not something he wished to discuss. And so we never did.

My mother died in January, after a long illness. My father, who was in 100% perfect health, collapsed and died instantly of a heart attack in April. They were both just sixty.

Sometimes bargains are hard to keep.

And sometimes they are harder on the people whom the bargains benefit.

And so tonight, on my thirty seventh birthday, I think of them both. But I especially remember my Daddy.

And I have not done my job as a writer if you can not tell I am writing this with tears in my eyes.

Funny Thing

From a month old email to my BFF, but worth repeating



Love is a funny thing. Love is deciding to make a life together and then living with the outcome, come hell or high water. Love is the inability to keep your hands off each other, and love is kind of sloggishly realizingy ou haven't been naked together in over a week but not really caring one way or the other.

Love is only attempting conversation during TV commercials, by mutual consent. And love is both of you desperately looking forward to the first episode of the new TV season for months, but then realizing your heated political conversation is more interesting and turning the damn thing off...by mutual consent.

Love is a man holding you close and calling you "Dear", and knowing you are the most treasured and valued woman in the world. Love is the same man calling you "Dear", and choosing to ignore the sarcasm in his voice.

Love is deciding you need a table for your foyer, and long, catalogue-consulting hours spent together debating an inanimate object to beautify the home you have decided to make together. Love is more than a dozen trips over as many weeks to as many furniture stores searching for a table that seemingly doesn't exist except in your own imagination. Love is knowing when to stop looking and just forget it.

Three months after the search for The Table has been called off and our lives have moved on, love is opening your front door and almost banging your hip on the table your loved one purchased as a surprise for you while you worked 13 hours on your day off.

Funny thing.

The table is beautiful beyond my dreams, and more "what I wanted" than I could have described to anyone. Kind of like Mario.

Funny thing.

Saturday morning

In my early twenties, one of my greatest pleasures was waking at 4 or 5 am on a Saturday morning. No alarm clock, just waking in the filtered light of the summer, or the inky stillness of the winter. I would quietly pad to the kitchen of my tiny apartment, start the coffee, and then curl up on the couch for a few hours. Sometimes I would read, sometimes I would embroider and listen to the news on CNN. And when I became aware of my apartment building slowly coming to life around 10 am, I would stand up and begin my day as well.

I enjoyed this ritual because it felt like my own delicious secret. I suspect that most 22 year olds don't even know there is such a time as 4am, unless it coincides with the time they get home from a party. (I was never what you would call a heavy partier.) I marvelled that here were these lovely, quiet early morning hours, just waiting for someone to steal them. I alone knew their secret.

I am no longer 22, and 4 am is no longer a friend I visit with often. Still, this morning my eyes opened at 7 am in total clarity, that instant transformation between slumber and wakefulness. And I quietly padded to the kitchen of our house to make coffee. And I curled up on the couch. And I read my book.

And soon, my love will slowly begin to waken from his own night's rest, and then our "real" day will begin.

But once more, I celebrate the hours I have stolen.