Have you ever been reading a book that was so intense that you couldn't put it down, only to lose it or leave it on the bus when you were only halfway through? It is the most frustrating experience, knowing there is so much left on those pages that you had yet to find out or experience. If the book was really that good, you'd likely go to the library or a bookstore and find another copy.
Who won the battle? What was the secret the main character was hiding that had the potential to upheave the lives of everyone else? Did the lovers overcome their assorted hardships and find their happily ever after?
But what if it is not a book that you misplaced, but a life that ended suddenly? A life that you can't just go and replace at Chapters?
This is how I've felt since the untimely passing of my mother 9 years ago tomorrow (June 22nd).
She was one of the main characters in my story. In fact, our stories were so intertwined that for a long time I didn't think mine could go on without her.
It did. I'm here, writing new pages each day. But I can't help but go back over and over again in my mind and try to figure out how that particular story would have played out. There was so much left that needed to be explained, contextualized, revealed, and understood. Her story was the greatest of mysteries, and one I'll never be able to solve.
It eats at me. My God, does it eat at me. I'm like Rust Cohle in True Detective sitting in a room filled with pictures and notes and clues trying to piece together the life of a woman who, on balance, I never really knew.
What were her motivations? Why did she end up the way she did? What were her greatest fears? Will I end up like her? For Christ's sake, what was her favourite colour?
I carry the weight of what I don't know about my mother on my back like a grieving Atlas. And some days, even 9 years later, the burden can seem too much to bear.
The truth is, her story DID end. Maybe not where I wanted it to--and certainly not without warning--but it ended. And she took her secrets with her.
I'll never be able to go back and ask the questions I've wanted to ask every day of the last 9 years.
I'll never be able to say I'm sorry for the pain she was in.
I'll never be able to giver her a hug (something we hadn't done since I was a small child) and tell her I love her despite it all.
I'll never be able to ask her what she was most proud of in her life.
I'll never be able to find out what made her laugh (I don't remember her ever laughing, not really).
I'll never be able to find out her recipe for mashed potatoes, who her favourite Beatle was, or what it means to be a woman.
All I have now are the pages that made up the last 17 years of her life. Some of those pages are bent or torn, some are missing, and some are illegible. Some make me laugh, many make me cry. I cherish each one.
9 years later both her death and her life are still the greatest mystery to me. But despite my primal yearning for a neat and tidy ending, I can't let its pursuit get in the way of writing my own story.
It's a hell of a page-turner, filled with the most wonderful and wacky characters, and I truly believe she would have loved it.
My memory likes to play tricks on me. Sometimes I can remember events in my life so vividly that it completely overtakes my senses and seems to becomes as real as when it actually happened. Other times I can't remember what I had for breakfast, or my mother's middle name.
Memory is funny like that.
There is new evidence to suggest that a memory changes and distorts over time. It seems our brains transform the memory each time we recall it, taking it further and further away from the truth of the actual event.This is because instead of remembering the actual memory, you’re recalling the memory of the last time you remembered it including any mistakes that might have been introduced at that point. Depending on the memory this can be part betrayal, part blessing.
In either case, we all become the unreliable narrator of our own life stories over time. Even reality is part fiction.
And yet we hold on to memories, we define ourselves by them. They become our narratives, our story lines. When we tell these stories we often use the same vocabulary, the same sequence of words--almost as if we are reading from a script.
If you ask my father about what it was like when I was growing up, he'll tell you the same story:
"I remember you kids would be waiting on the front steps when I got home. I would take you to the park every day and give you round-the-world's on the tire swing. Every other dad in the neighborhood hated me, but I loved being a dad".
It doesn't matter if this is exactly reflected in my memory, because this is his story. These are his memories, which in turn become the running narratives that he can access like a file on a computer. There's a "Fatherhood" file, a "Childhood" file, a "Husband" file, and each file contains various sub-directories with (what we think are) fixed narratives that culminate in My Life Story.
For some reason, as we grow older, these narratives become more set in stone (or "read-only" to beat the dead horse of my computer analogy). And yet research suggests that they become less accurate with time. Far from being The Truth, these memories are in fact inaccurate distortions of What Actually Happened (as a side note, this is also why eye witness testimony is so unreliable).
So what does this mean for us? Especially those of us (guilty) who sometimes act as beast of burden for our memories, clinging to them in an effort to reinforce and contain our identities?
I'm not entirely sure I have the answer. However, I think the first step, as always, is awareness. When a memory comes up--good or bad, we can first acknowledge it for what it is (and in fact what all thought is): the result of a complex series of chemical reactions in our brain matter. Just a bunch or neurons firing away, creating new pathways and reinforcing old ones.
This doesn't mean that memory cannot (or should not) have an impact on you. When I remember the beautiful gap in my mother's front teeth when she smiled, it makes me smile. Every time.
Memories most certainly have a way to elicit emotional responses from us, whether they are good, bad, or neutral (although emotions too are just the result chemical reactions). But they need not define us. In fact, if we hope to grow and change, we have to remove the mantle of the memory burden and strike out on our own.
So this is my resolution for 2014 (if you can call it that): I'm going to break away from the memory narratives I have held onto my whole life. I'm tossing the script. It's clunky, poorly written, and some of the plot twists were just too far out there to be believable.
Instead, each time a memory comes up I will create a space between myself and it, and I will fill that space with curiosity. I will allow it to be there, even allow myself to feel the emotions that may come up with it, but I won't allow it to define me.
My theory is, once you give yourself the space for curiosity, you can look at the memory from the position of observer instead of participant. Instead of reinforcing (increasingly inaccurate) ideas of who you are, you can decide to re-create yourself in your own story, or imagine yourself in a different way. Not by repressing or reliving, but by creating space.
So as this past year comes to an end and we roll into a brand new 365 chapter volume, let us all try to focus on the memories we want to create instead of the ones that we are leaving behind. Memory is constantly changing, and you can too.
After all, you are the author of your own story. Why not make it a great one?
The other day, I updated my status on Facebook in an uncharacteristically personal way. It read:
The holidays can be happy and joyful for lots of people, but for some it can be a dark and painful time of year. Since 2005, I have approached the month of December with extreme anxiety and often depression. More often than not, I would get into bed around the 23rd and not get out again until the new year, breathing a sigh of relief that I got through another year. If it weren't for the kind words of support from people around me, who took the time to make sure I knew I was loved, I don't know how I would have gotten through those times.
This year, for the first time in a long long time, I'm feeling able to take on this time of year with a smile, so I'd like to return the favour. If you are one of those people who struggle with the holidays, feel lonely, sad, or even angry, I want to formally extend the offer of my ear to bend. I'm a really good listener, and I've been through it all--the highest highs and the lowest lows. I don't have a judgemental bone in my body, and I genuinely care for others--even those of you I don't know that well. You can message me here, email me at [email protected], or if you want send me a note and I'll give you my cell number. Seriously. Any time. For what it's worth.
The response I got from people was pretty incredible, and a powerful reminder that no matter how people present on the outside, we can never really know what's happening on the inside. This is why it is so fundamentally important to strive each day to be kind to others. Even when it's hard. Especially when it's hard. That person could be fighting a battle that we couldn't even imagine, and only one piece of kindness could give them the emotional advantage they need to win it.
I received responses from people I would consider good friends, from people I barely know, from people I haven't spoken to in years. The messages always contained a common thread of feeling like they were alone in their struggle, or that others wouldn't understand, but that having someone to talk to--someone who could empathize with them--made a huge difference.
**************
In North America especially we have this obsession with the holidays--with Christmas being the most extravagant of these. On November 1st the stores fall all over themselves to put up their Christmas decor. Orange and black are replaced everywhere with red and green, as twinkling lights are affixed to every available surface. None of that bothers me in particular. For me, a card-carrying non-believer who can't be fussed with materialism, it was a very different aspect of this time of year that had meaning. For me, it meant family.
I've never had a terribly traditional family. Or maybe disfunction is more traditional than I give it credit for being. Looking back on it, we were more like 4 individuals who happened to share a common address in a lot of ways. Even this became less the case as time went on. Before I hit my teens, my sister left to move out west to train at a competitive athletics school. Soon thereafter, my father moved to Montreal for work, returning each weekend at first, but this eventually dropped off to a much reduced frequency. And who could blame him? That's one hell of a commute.
So, as circumstances would have it, the only time that the 4 of us would come together was on holidays--mostly on Christmas. I lived for this time of year when my family would all be under the same roof. That meant more to me than any presents ever could (but that didn't stop me from looking under my parents' bed where my mom put the presents each day up until the morning of the 25th. I was a kid, what do you want?).
We were together, and for a few moments each year in December as we sat around the dinner table, we were everything I ever wanted. My dad would be relaying amusing anecdotes with his trademark dry wit, my mother would sit there quietly, but break into the occasional smile which for me meant everything, and my sister and I would roll our eyes at each other across the table at each archaic turn of phrase Dad would pepper his speech with.
The last of these moments was Christmas 2004. The next year would see me lose my mother, and our family home within days of each other. None of us has ever been the same since.
Starting in 2005 then, this time of year has elicited the exact opposite response from me. I approach it with dread, extreme sadness, and even sometimes anger. The things that once brought me joy--Christmas music, seeing the decorations go up throughout the city, hell even poor, blameless snowmen--were now to be avoided at all costs. I couldn't be trusted around these things. I felt like they were mocking me, reminding me of everything I lost.
Once a year, the whole city would transform into a talisman of sadness. Everywhere I turned would be another reminder of the pain I was carrying with me. And I too felt like I had no one I could talk to about it. I knew how much this time of year meant to everyone else, how much joy it brought them. I couldn't bear the thought of being the person who cast a shadow on the doorstep of their happiness. Who wants to be that person?
So I kept quiet. And every year, beginning in December, I would fight my own private war that no one else could see. That's not to say that people didn't try to help. I often had invites from caring friends to come join them and their families on Christmas. I always made up some excuse why I couldn't come, often hurting the feelings of the person who had extended their kindness to me. But how could I go? How could I sit there and watch as they enjoyed all the things I so deeply wanted, but couldn't have? Even sitting at their table and enjoying their warm hospitality, I would still be on the outside looking in.
It wasn't that I wasn't grateful for all the things I did have in my life, including lovely friends who cared enough to reach out. I've always been bewildered by the kindness others have shown me, and thankful for it with each turn. It was rather that this was the one time of year where gratitude truly wasn't enough. The sadness, the loss, was so big and so heavy and on this day of all the other 364, it demanded I recognize it. So for many years, I waged my war in private.
****************************
It has been 8 years, and much personal growth since 2005. I've come a long way and feel stronger than I have in a long time.
I'm lucky to have a wonderful father and sister, and even though we don't see each other very often, it helps to know that they're there.
I also have for the first time someone very special in my life who is helping me see the possibility of extending and redefining my notion of family.
The result is that for the first time in 8 years I'm starting to be able to enjoy this time of year again. At my apartment we have a little Charlie Brown Christmas tree sitting in the corner, I've been listening to the Time Life Christmas collection non-stop, and I even sat on Santa's lap a few days ago.
It doesn't mean the sadness is gone. I have had a few moments recently where I get completely overwhelmed by memories and the sadness comes rushing back. The difference this time however, is that they wash over me and then recede, as opposed to being an 18-wheeler of torment that lays me out flat for days. The war isn't over, but the battles are becoming fewer in number and casualties.
So now, I'd like to offer up my sword to anyone else who might need an extra soldier in their fight. Even if it's just someone to extend their ear, or offer a symbolic nod of understanding.
As cliche as it sounds, I've been able to find a bit of light in what was once a very dark time. I can't help you find your own--that is a very personal journey. But if you want, I can hold a candle for you in the night.
Email me anytime at [email protected]. If you prefer a phone conversation, send me a message and I'll give you my cell number.
So a lot of people are asking me to post a copy of my TEDx talk--so here it is. It wasn't hard to give this speech with passion, because I believe in this down to my core. Oh, and for those of you who don't know, the organization I speak of in the speech is the one I currently work with and believe in with all my heart.
Please let me know what you think, and I'll post video when it becomes available. Here it is:
Children are children everywhere, and every child deserves not only to survive but to thrive. Furthermore, it is the responsibility of every adult to do their part--no matter how big or small--to ensure that this happens. To begin, I want to ask you to take a moment and think about what things are necessary for your survival? I think most of us can easily list the things we need to survive on a daily basis: enough to eat, clean water, a safe place to lay our heads at night. I don’t think any of us would argue that these are basic human rights that every child in the world deserves .
Now, I want you to think about what you need in order to thrive. Maybe this list isn’t quite as easy to imagine. First we have to think about what it means to thrive. If we look at what the definition of the word thrive is, it means a few things: to make steady progress, to flourish, to grow strongly and vigorously. So, if we bring it back to our personal needs, to thrive means to have the supports in place to not only just stay alive, but to be better, stronger and to prosper with each day.
Take a moment now and think about what is on your list of what you need to thrive. Perhaps on this list you might have things like good schools, community supports, access to health care, and enrichment opportunities like sports, art, or music. For most of us here today, we have access to all of these things. Ourselves, and our children are not only surviving, they are thriving. And when you get to the core of it to survive, and to thrive--when we join them together the result is what we call childhood. Do you not agree that this too should be a right for all children? As it stands today, it is not. There are children all over the world who are surviving, sometimes only just barely, but they are denied the support they need to thrive. They are denied their right to a childhood.
The needs of these children are the same as ours. They need food, shelter, and clean drinking water. But more than this, all children love to play, want to learn, and most of all they recognize how much it means when someone cares about them; when someone believes in them enough to invest in ensuring that they have a safe and healthy childhood.
As adults (or young adults in the case of some of the young women here today) investing in children is fundamental on both a personal level, and a global one. Not only are children among the most vulnerable portions of our population, but they also have the seeds for potential within them that must be nurtured and protected today so that they can grow into the possibilities of the future. They cannot do this on their own, so we cannot turn away.
In response to this, I began working with Friends of NOAH Canada in 2012, and quickly found myself face to face with children they support everywhere from West Africa, to First Nations reserves in Northern Ontario. At first, it doesn’t seem like these children would have much in common, but I learned that the opposite is in fact true. They way they dissolve into giggles when you make a funny face, their instinct to find or create things in their environment to make a game out of, the way they swell with accomplishment when they learn something new--this is the same the world over. And these are the seeds of potential that must be watered and cared for.
I saw the results of investing in this potential first hand in a remote village in the West African country called Burkina Faso. I was there with Sarina Condello, who in partnership with Friends of NOAH Canada provides empowering arts-based programming to children in vulnerable communities. Each day we would drive to the local primary school where we would dance, sing, paint, draw, and play games with the children of the village. And each day the children would run alongside our truck as it approached laughing, cheering, singing the songs we learned with them the day before. No matter how hot it was, how dry, whether they had a full tummy or not they would sing at the top of their lungs and burst with joy when we brought out the big parachute they so loved to play with. Most of these children barely had what they needed to survive, and yet here they were LEAPING for the opportunity to thrive. I knew at this moment that these children had just as much to teach me about how to find joy and happiness in life as I could ever hope to teach them. I also knew that turning away would never again be an option.
Children have a remarkable power to find happiness in life, regardless of their situations. But that remarkable power cannot make up for a lack of food, for ill health, for the loss of safety and security, or the absence of nurturing and hope. The lack of these take away a child’s freedom to thrive -- they destroy the path of child development. Because of circumstance.
This is wrong.
It is wrong because every child, should be enabled to thrive.
This is where Friends of NOAH Canada steps in. What first intrigued me about their model of working with children, and in fact what I think makes it so successful, is that they really understand what it means to support a child in a holistic, sustainable way. Not only do they help address the child’s survival needs, which are of course of the utmost importance and what most charitable organizations focus on, but they also direct just as much energy into providing what the child needs to thrive.
A child cannot thrive if they are not safe and protected, so Friend of NOAH Canada helps to empower members of the community to come together to form a network of care, known as an Ark, that includes a local centre where the children can be looked after.
A child cannot grow big and strong on an empty stomach, so we support nutrition programs for the children in these communities.
A child cannot be fully prepared to learn without educational support, so we provide Early Child Development centres with trained personnel to support these children.
A child cannot really grow into an empowered adult if they do not learn how to connect with their own sense of joy and wonder, so we bring in arts-based programming to unleash their child spirit.
Friends of NOAH Canada also recognizes the phenomenal power of partnership, so we joined forces with some of the most effective and intelligent programs that will give the children the resources they need to flourish. These programs are intelligent because they are fiscally responsible, culturally adaptable, community driven, and highly effective.
We partner with Havergal College and the One Laptop Per Child program to help children learn about logic, thinking ahead, problem solving and spatial connections by playing stimulating games on these laptops. It is also important to connect them with the power of technology at this young age.
More recently we partnered with Girls Helping Girls, which sees some incredible young women from Havergal raising funds to send young women in South Africa to school.
We partner with The Big Little Caravan of Joy to provide the arts-based programming I mentioned which allows the children the chance to creatively explore the world around them through the natural language of play.
But most importantly of all, Friends of NOAH Canada does all of this by empowering the communities themselves with the capacity, skills, and support to care for the children in their midst. Because no one is better to take care of a child than their own community. This allows these programs to be sustainable, and gives ownership of the future back to the community where it rightfully belongs.
And as you could see in the video, these communities are so dedicated and committed to taking part in the healthy and happy development of their children because they recognize, like we do, how important it is to invest in a child. And as these children grow up into happy, empowered adults, this investment will pay-off exponentially.
It really does take a village to raise a child, and thanks to our modern world that village has suddenly gotten a lot bigger. We now have the ability to positively impact the life of a child anywhere on the planet. To help them not only survive but thrive. And for some children, they need us to reach out now more than ever. If these children do not get adequate food, shelter, play, love, and support—if they are denied their childhood—they will forever live on the margins of society and will not have the chance to take ownership of their future. I’m asking you today to make the decision to join me in making sure that doesn’t happen to any child, anywhere. Thank you.
The other day my boyfriend was (oh-so-generously) giving me a much needed massage. I've been travelling throughout remote First Nations reserves in Northern Ontario doing creative arts programming for the children up there for the past month, and my body has taken somewhat of a beating. Between the grueling travel schedule (20 flights in 4 weeks!), and the sheer physicality required when working with large groups of children in an energetic and engaging way day in and day out in remote locations, I'm a bit out of whack.
(Now--don't get me wrong. It is easily the most rewarding work I've ever done and I wouldn't change a thing, but as in any challenging but worthwhile endeavor, it can take a toll on you mentally, physically, and emotionally.)
As he was working on my shins, I was almost in tears because of how much pain even the slightest pressure elicited. He asked me if he should stop, but I told him to continue on; I knew the only way that I would heal would be to accept this current discomfort. So he pressed on.
This got me thinking: I ran away from pain for many years. I developed an almost uncanny ability to capture anything remotely painful in a jar, and bury that jar in a very far away place where I thought it would never be able to reach me. It worked. In fact I would say the ability to shield myself from the enormity of what I was going through was a very useful survival mechanism.
But as we all know, pain and sadness are deft and clever by their own nature; they'll always find a way back to you. Often when you least expect it, and, in their exile, they will have likely grown to be bigger and more formidable foes.
Not to mention, you can't spot treat pain. If you shut down one emotional reaction, you shut down the rest. The result was that during this period of my life most people who knew me would describe me as polite, warm, and friendly on the surface, but any attempts to reach beyond that would prove to be ultimately fruitless. I had one friend during that time who went so far as to say "I've known you for years, and yet I don't know you at all".
The truth is, in my attempts to shield myself from feeling pain, I was in fact hurting myself and those around me in an even more profound way, which created a negative feedback loop that kept growing and growing until it eventually spiraled out of control.
Operating from a place of survival and fear only works for so long before becoming maladaptive, and you are in fact left with a worse problem than when you started.
Two years ago I decided enough was enough, and began the process of opening each of those jars, one by one, and taking a look at what I had locked inside of them. I began from a place of curiosity; holding each jar up in front of me and observing it from a safe distance. I turned it one way and then the next. I ran my hands around the jar until my fingers had examined each groove.
Slowly, I began to unscrew the lids and see what was inside. It hurt. Sometimes it hurt so bad I wanted to put the lid back on and bury the jar as far into the earth as it would accommodate. But I pressed on. I've been pressing on ever since.
This is far from being an enjoyable process, but the truth is I have no other choice. Life is far too enormous and complex and beautiful and strange and wonderful to experience with anything less than full and radical acceptance.
Whatever it is you're feeling, you must FEEL IT. Take it in. Accept it. Embrace it. Stand up, open your arms, and hold space for whatever the universe brings to you.
Sometimes it's ugly, sometimes it's gritty and gruesome and utterly terrifying.
Sometimes it's beautiful and magical and so overwhelmingly immense that you feel like you might burst out of your skin.
No matter what it is, the important thing is to take it in, give it a hug and a pat on the back. Give it space. Approach it with curiosity, not contempt or judgement. Thank it for the lesson it is giving you, even if you're not sure at that moment in time what that lesson is. Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.
But trust me, there are no accidents. Feelings and emotions and experiences--whether good or bad--are there to teach us. It is your choice whether or not you are willing to accept those teachings, and ultimately what you do with them if you do.
Life will go on either way. It's up to you to decide how you want to take part in it.
As Marcus Aurelius said in Book V of his Meditations, "The Universe is change: life is opinion".
Imagine two figures walking through the snow in a forest of closely-packed pine trees at once familiar to the world of fairy tales. One is an old man in sturdy boots and a tweed suit the colour of sun-lightened oak. The other is a shadow. Each time you try to imagine the shape and size of the shadow, to place it within comfortable dimensions, it shifts. It moves. It rearranges itself to be unknowable. That's alright. Let it be unknown.
They have been walking together for a while now, The Tweed Man and The Shadow. Under each footfall of this booted-man, the snow compresses and becomes more densely packed; the forest has been preparing for this and each element plays its part.
The wind gently lifts the topmost layer of snow and moves it in a gentle, Waltz-like rise and fall. The snow itself has surrendered to the dance, and knows that wherever it comes to land is the place it was meant to be.
But for a few red-breasted Robins who missed their voyage south in exchange for being part of this story, the birds have fallen silent, content to let the footfalls of this long-awaited visitor create the song that the forest moves to for now.
The trees bend and creak ever so slightly; they are the Watchers of the woods and they're here to see that everything unfolds exactly as the stories say they will. The joke is on us--that is the only way things ever unfold.
These Watchers were there when the first story was told, and they've been the guardians of the myths ever since. Watching without sight, hearing without sound.
Back to the Tweed Man and the Shadow. They are far from the meadow now, each step taking them further into a forest that is simultaneously unknown and yet also more a part of this man than his own bones.
Finally, they come to a small clearing in the trees. The light from above finds its way into this space in long, fine strands like the silken paths of the spider's web. This is not by accident.
The man in tweed walks slowly to the centre of the clearing. There is no more sound here; even the snow under his feet has become silent. It moves itself around him--flattening in anticipation of his steps.
Now, imagine him gently placing his right knee down into the snow, creating a soundless, oblong imprint. Soon after he has gone the snow will fill it in and it will be as if he were never here. That is as it should be. That's how these stories work.
The Tweed Man pauses here, as if unsure what comes next. Now it is the Shadow's turn to talk.
With a voice not unlike the call of the Robin, or the creak of the trees, or the gently rhythm of the wind, The Shadow says:
"Lay down your burden"
The Tweed Man lifts his head suddenly, as if roused from a day-dream. These are the words he has been waiting to hear his whole life.
Soundlessly, with the single-minded purpose of water flowing downhill, The Tweed Man takes The Shadow in his hands--as small as a single grain of sand, and as vast as a mountain--and he places it gently down in the snow.
Once again, the man hesitates. He is afraid to let go. He fears that once he has lost this connection, he will have lost that part of himself that anchors him, and he will instantly spinning around wildly like a compass needle near a magnetic pole.
The voice comes again, and this time it has the clarity of a church bell ringing for Matins in a hilltop monastery:
"Lay down your burden and go home"
In one fluid motion, The Tweed Man lets go of The Shadow and rises to his feet. He looks around, unsure of where he is or how he got there. He could not say why, but something in him has changed. He looks down and sees one set of footprints--his own--and begins to follow them back into the forest, and through the forest, home.
Now, imagine one figure walking through the snow in a forest of closely-packed pine trees at once familiar to the world of fairy tales: a young man in sturdy boots and tweed the colour of sun-lightened oak.
I'm not going to lie...I actually got teary-eyed watching this video. This man is incredible...not only does he have one of the most soulful, moving voices since Marvin, but he is also in my opinion one of the bravest men out there--having publicly come out as being bisexual in a musical genre that is anything but accepting of it.
Watch this video and try not to be moved by his performance. This is real talent, ladies and gentlemen, and it doesn't come by often.
A Letter to My Future Self at the Turn of the (Quarter) Century
Dear Future Self,
Tomorrow I will be 26 years of age. I don't have any particular feelings about this statement. I'm too young still to complain about getting old (maybe you're doing that now), and not young enough any more to lament over the things I cannot yet do.
I make the statement more as an observation; a chance to check in with you and leave some sort of record of the passage of time before time passes, and with it my memory of this moment.
So what have I learned in this 25th year of my life? What kind of message am I hoping to leave for you, my Future Self, about who I was at this particular stage?
Looking back I'd like to remember that this was the year that I really figured out what it is I want to be doing and what it is that makes me the happiest. This is no small feat, and has come at no small price.
The growing pains were immense this year. At times I felt incredibly uncertain. Incredibly stagnant. Incredibly hopeless. I had a day job that--while I was massively grateful to have it--was not fulfilling me or driving me forward. I had ideas and notions, but was not yet ready to take the leap forward into the unknown. The truth is, I hadn't yet developed enough trust in myself yet to believe that if I took that leap that I would be doing anything other than falling down into a bottomless pit. The crippling complacency of self-doubt.
Despite these misgivings about myself and where I was going, I still took chances this year. Starting with petits sauts into the unknown, I eventually pushed myself further and further: I started writing more. I made a bunch of new friends. I made inroads to repairing damaged relationships. I let go of ones that were no longer positive. I started to learn what it feels like to be able to say no and realizing that the world wouldn't come to an end. I was, uh, on a television show.
The more of these experiences I cultivated, the more I felt that the Universe was letting me know it was time to stop pussy-footing around and make some bigger changes; it was time to come out and make a bold statement about who I am and what I bring to the world. I started changing my motto from "no, thank you" to "yes, please". The results were enormous and immediate.
Opportunities starting coming my way that were sometimes beyond belief. I was being given chances to do the work I could only have dreamed of for myself. But it would mean leaving the (tenuous) security and comfort of the routine and job I had become accustomed to--however unhappily.
"Yes, please" I said.
Once I said this, the fear did not disappear, but it was instead tempered by the faith in the future that accompanied it.
What followed was a stretch of fast and furious decisions, experiences, and insights which culminated in spending 3 months traveling with my mentor, friend, and greatest inspiration Sarina Condello, doing something so simple, yet so rarely emphasized: spreading joy.
From Cat Lake, Ontario to Burkina Faso, West Africa, I woke up every morning and directed all my energy to making others smile. The interesting thing about this is that although the work we were doing was very demanding and sometimes physically draining, every ounce of energy and effort was returned to me in spades through the knowledge that I was making someone happy.
I was tapping into this incredible source of light and happiness, and by sharing it, it was magnified within myself.
You get high on it. It's like magic.
When I returned home there was no doubt in my mind: this is what I am meant to be doing. Whatever my beliefs about why were are here on this planet as a collective, I know that my purpose is to serve others. However I can.
This doesn't only mean putting on a tutu and dancing with 500 children simultaneously in a dusty African field (but you better believe that will be part of it). It also means working here at home with the people and the organizations that are in alignment with these beliefs (big news on that front that I'm too superstitious to reveal until the ink is dry, but you, my future self, already know all about it).
And--I like to think it goes without saying--it means doing my best to bring joy into the lives of those around me: friends, family, and strangers alike.
As you can see, I have some big ideas and lofty goals. But I've GOT them and I BELIEVE in them and that is what matters. So long as I'm moving forward and doing my best to stay in alignment with my potential and purpose, then I've already won the prize.
So, Future Self, when you look back on your 25th year of life, I want you to remember that this was the year you decided to shake off the dust of the past and step forward powerfully and unapologetically.
It wasn't easy, and the road ahead is undoubtedly bumpy, but now I've got my feet under me and the certain knowledge that I am on the right path.
Pretty cool, eh?
Anyway, Future Self, this is all old hat to you by now as you've now navigated the uncharted territory and have hopefully landed happily in the New World, but I ask you to look back on this version of yourself and remember what it took to get there.
Also, remember how incredible your family and friends (who are family anyway) are. Remember how they stood by you, even when it wasn't easy. Remember how they made you laugh, and more importantly how they laughed tactfully when you said something without tact. Remember how they loved you. Even remember the people who you knew only briefly, and may never see again, but who shared who they were with you in an authentic way--if only for that moment.
Most importantly, Future Self--and this is entirely self-serving, but: I wish you all the best. I mean it.
I swear to Christ, my sister and her husband (who is from Cuba) are the modern day Lucy and Ricky. Today, he stalled his car trying to get out of a parking lot and she yelled in a high-pitched voice "PEH-KAYYYY" (we call him Peque, short for Pequeño--Spanish for little one--because he is 5'3") "Ay por Dio watch what you're doing!!!" and he responded in his broken english "Ayyyyy baaaaabe. If you wanted one perfect husband you no should look in COOBA".
I almost died laughing. And this was before he came home with bejeweled jeggings from Dollarama which he had bought as a gift to bring home to Cuba for his sister.
When the GOP house organ Fox News calls bullshit on you, you know you’ve screwed the pooch. Excerpt:
“Ryan’s speech was an apparent attempt to set the world record for the greatest number of blatant lies and misrepresentations slipped into a single political speech. ”
Two people were ejected from the Republican National Convention for throwing nuts at an African-American camera operator for CNN and telling her: “This is how we feed animals.”
