Big, Messy

Change is afoot. Life has a funny way of putting us on the path and suddenly turning off in another direction. I know this more than I ever have before.

You see, I’m getting married. Next year. I had for a long time thought of it outside the realm of possibility for me. If you are my mother, you’d interpret that to be a negative comment. It isn’t. I was simply happy with the life I had built - it contains family and friends, a job I’m good at, plenty of books and music.

But then of course all that changed in a matter of months and now I’m thinking about seating charts and cake flavours.

The transition to committing to another person has some growing pains associated with it. I had dedicated all my life and energy into building a career and a life that I, alone, occupied. There was plenty of space for others, but it was temporary. And when you’ve signed on for solitude, there are other things that you discount by default. Like holidays with inlaws, joint grocery lists and children.

I have, and am still grappling with how these developments mean not only a shift in my time and energy, but a shift in intent. My babies so far have been my writing and my music. But real life babies mean upending my whole life to make room for messes and nurturing. For sleepless nights and car seats and sticky fingers and days at the park.

I’ve thought about it for so long and I simply could not start to wrap my head around who I would be as this person. She doesn’t exist in the way she needs to. Not yet anyway. My intent is beginning to shift but the old, solid reliable part of me is trying desperately to hang on.

But your career! You can’t have children - they’ll ruin your carpet and eat your orchids!

I love my brain but it is loud when it doesn’t want to change.

I recently watched a TEDx talk by Clay Christensen called “How will you measure you life?” In it, he talks about the investments that we make in our lives. We look for short term, hierarchical gains that put us at the top of organizational charts. These are, in the grand scheme of things, easier investments. Results are more immediate. You either get the promotion or you don’t. Where we sometimes are remiss in putting in our efforts is into the parts of our lives where the gains aren’t apparent for many years. The daily grind of raising children is not joyful. Kids are sticky and whiny and they act up. It’s only, in Christensen’s words, 20 years later that you can look and say, we raised good kids.

These are the investments - the ones that don’t give us immediate gains - that we have to be brave enough to invest in. Frankly, we don’t know what we’re signing up for. It’s a blind exercise, but one that might be infinitely more fulfilling than a promotion.

I am slowly realizing that these are investments that I simply haven’t made - by choice or chance - until now. When I talk about the intent of it all, I am referring to a very particular fact: That all of my life, the skills I have gained, the work I have done, the mental hurdles I’ve overcome are all in preparation for a bigger life. It’ll be a messier, busier life, but it will be much larger than I have imagined for myself.

Right now, my one bedroom apartment is occupied by me, an unwieldy bookshelf and plants that keep being gifted to me. I think of it as a bit of a metaphor for my heart and my mind. It has been my sanctuary - a place of almost spiritual context in my mind. All along, there has only been room for me. But now, I’m staring at an extra pair of shoes, a favourite coffee mug that isn’t my coffee mug, a baseball cap on top of my bookshelf. In the same way, I am allowing others to occupy space in my mind and my life and considering the possibility that one day there may be more room to be made. And of course, life is richer because of it. Things aren’t as orderly, but there is also laughter and another person wandering through the rooms.

It’s a scary prospect. But as we learn in psychology, anxiety and excitement are different sides of the same coin. Perhaps it’s time for this big, messy, brave life now.

The Year of Nurture (Part 2)

Very recently, I read a book called "Astrophysics for People in a Hurry" by Neil dGrasse Tyson. In it, he explores the formation of the universe - how just the right conditions create what we now have. Through abundance and lack, the universe struck a perfect balance so that our little planet could harbour life. 

At the end of that book, I marveled really at the ability of the universe to just course correct and right itself through a slow process that takes more time than we can even fathom in our heads. Millions of years to perfect and fine-tune.

I have been trying to apply this concept of taking time to nurture this year. I recently found myself in for a community garden plot just down the way from where I am. It's a lovely little hub that's hidden in the woods, close to the inlet.

I have never really thought of gardening as a hobby. Allergies and a general desire to be indoors mostly kept me away from it. But this year, I decided that I could use a little more zen in my life. I've always been good with plants. Things grow when I'm around. Credit to the things of course - they survive in spite of my best efforts to ignore them and how little I actually know about gardening. In a way, we are all made for inhospitable environments.

Back to gardening. I thought I would use my hidden green thumb to grow a few things. In the shockingly calm early morning, I generally make my way down to the plot. I spend most of my time weeding and turning over soil. I check on the few plants I have right now - mostly I'm focusing on herbs and keeping things alive. (The lavender bush disappeared last week - it may have gotten up and walked off.) Then I wander around and admire other people's gardens. There are all manner of happy, healthy fauna from bright blooming marigolds (good for pest control) to early summer strawberries, just starting to turn red to that hardy strongman of verdant plants we call kale.

I'm learning things too. Tending a garden requires patience. Your peppers don't sprout in a week. And not all things will grow. Some aren't simply meant to. And others, you haven't learned to take care of properly. You can't compare your work to the work of others. Different environments just breed different products. A little more sun, and you have bright early tomatoes. A little less sun and they'll need some coaxing.

It helps to be generous too. People who cultivate these plots share with each other. We are all tending to the same earth after all and there are only so many chives you can consume in one week. There is also, only so much you can do to control the environment around you. If the squirrels get to your zucchini first, then you'll have to concede.

Right now, going down to the garden on the weekend is a small joy. Between the butterflies that roam around, the distant sound of water lapping at the shores, and the ever-evolving surprises on my small plot of land, I've found some peace. It's not perfect. But it's peace nonetheless.

That's really what nurturing seems to be about. It's a slow cultivation and a balance of states that allows us to create life. Or coax it out. Some things will survive the harsh winters. Others, despite your best efforts will inevitably fail. We ourselves, grow in the same way, at the mercy of those who tend to us, and the whims of the world around us. But at the end of the day, the universe that's contained in this garden and within us finds a way to right itself.

The Year to Nurture

So much for ease. It was the word I chose last year, which turned out to be anything but. Big life changes. As usual. Every five years or so, my life turns itself on its head. By some miscalculation, I forgot that 2017 would be that year. And so it went. With not much more ease than I had pictured. But it was all in good stead.

2017 pulled me in a million different directions from reorienting my career to figuring out what I wanted from my relationships to giving myself to the many things that occupy my time. It's always when I look for some time to take a breath that this vacuum is filled up again with activity.

And I'm grateful for it. All the work I've done personally and professionally is paying off in sometimes subtle and sometimes massive ways. Forward motion is good.

I suppose it wasn't for naught. I suppose the ease really came from my ability to handle the changes without feeling the great compression of stress that these changes usually bring. But my brain was most definitely tired out from being graceful about it all. There are days where my mind simply ached from being tossed from one thing to another.

Though I don't always align with my word of the year, I endeavour to come up with one anyway. If for no other reason, than it helps me look back after the year to put the pieces of my life into some sort of coherent picture (with or without the word). A sort of mental jigsaw, if you will.

This year is no different. Over the last year, I've read up a lot on focus and simplifying. With all that's happening in the news and all the changes in my life, I found myself craving space to do the things I actually want to do like sleep or go for walks or not check work emails on the weekend. Initially, I wanted to pick "Focus" as my word of the year. But it seemed to clinical and didn't align with the emotional growth I've tended to this past year. While laser focus is a great thing, it's not where my energy currently sits.

So I'm naming 2018 the year to nurture.

Nurturing for me this year, means paring my life down to the essentials. To the things that I want to grow and I wish would flourish. It is a year of giving due care to things that will serve me well. Enough with the mini-projects, the one-offs and bright shiny distractions. Enough with the inability to sit on my hands when yet another tempting offer comes my way. Not this year.

This year I want to give my energy to three main things: To my relationships (familial, collegial), to my health (so my mind and body can come together in a way that serves me and those around me) and to learning (so that I'm feeding my ever-hungry mind good nutritious things). I've decided that everything outside of the realm of these three will merit serious consideration before getting a yes.

Sometimes to pare down and concentrate your energies on things that matter is more important because it is from that growth that everything else stems. To be surrounded by the strength of your community, to feel in your own spirit, and to find the world a curious place are critical to your own success.

No mantras. No hacks. No wheeling and dealing.

Just growing. Just nurturing.

Bred in Bone

“It is impossible not to love someone who makes toast for you.”

— Nigel Slater

There are three main things that the women in my family share almost unequivocally: a fine-tuned sense of smell; a glacially slow metabolism; and a deep abiding love of bread. My deepest and strongest memories of food have always been intimately linked with all things doughy, crusty, plush and slightly yeasty.

My earliest recollections of bread are memories of my grandmother (my nani). I remember spending my afternoons hovering around her as she prepared rotli (Indian flat bread) for the evening's dinner. Her deft flick of the wrist rolling out perfect, flat rounds. The toasty smell of cooked dough permeating through her clothes and the kitchen. It was almost as if her soft, plush figure was entirely made of the same substance - out of perfect white flour and a little bit of oil and water. She would, of course, give me the tiniest rotli, covered in ghee, sprinkled with sugar. I would always eat it far too quickly, unable to contain the desire to overwhelm my senses.

Bread is and has always been a deeply sensual food. It demands that we give it our entire attention and demands that we take risks for it. To rely on ever so slight changes in temperature to activate the yeast is to put yourself wholly in the hands of fate itself. The kneading of dough, the fragrance that starts to snake its way through the house, the sound of that first crackle of breaking crust. I can't think of any other food that is so beguiling, so seductive. 

The act of making it is often passed on through families, with special recipes and techniques. My own family is no exception. Because I'm afraid of yeast, the task of baking has fallen squarely on my mother and sister and I adore and ravenously consume just about anything they put in front of me. From my mother's caraway-spotted naan to my sister's layered gooey cinnamon buns, the joy of eating with my family is entirely predicated sometimes on eating various combinations of flour, fat and liquid. 

To love bread is to first love the very basic part of what it means to be human. The earliest civilizations cooked things up that resembled bread. It has sustained communities around the world. There is a reason we "break bread" with others as an act of camaraderie and well wishing. There is a reason why it figures so highly in important events such as weddings (what is cake afterall, but a sweet type of bread?) Jesus fed a multitude with loaves of bread and not carrot sticks. It is often in some form one of the first things we eat, whether it's softened in milk or comes in some other form. It lies at the heart of our understanding that those who love us will feed us and sustain us in many other ways. It is inseparable from human emotion and from our psychological states.

In a society that sometimes quickly forgets its roots, the relationship with bread has become complicated, tenuous and risky. What once was heart and hearth of our daily lives has become much maligned and seen as dangerous. What once sustained us and was the centre of how we survived has become a fringe product for those who don't care about their well-being. I feel sad for those people who choose not to eat bread (which in my book is entirely different from those who simply can't eat it). I would never try to convince them otherwise. But I do ask myself what else, about themselves they might be forgetting. To me they are missing out on a visceral joy of slathering a slice of french bread with butter and then licking up all the crumbs without reserve. 

I will always believe that my love of bread was bred in bone through my nani. In my mind, she is often a tableau. A woman wearing a light homemade cotton frock, sitting at the kitchen table, dipping buttered bread into her chai. Bread filled in for meals. It was her lunch, her after dinner snack if she was hungry, and most definitely her breakfast. As she aged and succumbed to Alzheimer's, it was often the only thing she would eat. For many people with dementia, repetitive behaviours are par for the course. She would make tea and eat slices of bread over and over because she didn't remember having eaten. And bread was her go-to. It has been all her life, and the continued to rely on it to offer her comfort when much else had faded from memory.

Still. When I sprinkle my own thin layer of sugar over rotli after a long week at work, I think of her. 

Art, Forgiveness

Yesterday, I wandered down to the Vancouver International Film Festival for a viewing of Shane Koyczan's "Shut Up and Say Something". Koyczan, who is a long-time spoken word poet, really broke into the national limelight when he performed at the 2010 Vancouver Olympics. It was one of my favourite moments in the Olympics (and there were an awful lot of those). 

The documentary, which spans over four years of his life, following him through a number of cities, is about art. About how performance requires a vulnerability that only comes to be on stage, about his growing up and where he draws his material from. How a difficult childhood of bullying and abandonment has led Shane down a path of not only creative discovery, but of trying to make amends with his past. He tries to give voice to his struggles, and those of countless others.

Part of the documentary also covers his meeting with his father, long estranged, who left when Shane was a baby (he was raised by his grandmother). The documentary captures so well the anger, struggle,love and the wanting to forgive throughout. 

It really got me thinking about forgiveness. Art is imbued with so many of our struggles and triumphs as artists, but perhaps one of the greatest gifts it offers us is a way to bridge together our creations with forgiveness.

Forgiveness is hard. It is hard. The capacity to forgive wholeheartedly is sometimes the purview of incredibly evolved human beings (think about your various Lamas and nuns). Because it's just so much easier to burn up inside than to give someone the benefit of the doubt.

Artists, however, have a special backstage pass to be able to access that most elusive and difficult of abilities. We as artists, have a deep, deep reservoir that feeds our creative impulses, often to some benefit to the world. Whether we are showing the world pain and saying "hey, I've been there too" or whether we're showing them something beautiful and saying, "there is better out there", artists have an incredible capacity to perform the things we feel and a capacity to express things that are difficult in only words.

Shane's journey to forgiveness, especially to his father has not been an easy one, and I get the sense that there is a lot there that needs to be worked out (he was on stage for a brief Q/A session after the film). Abandonment leaves a kind of dent that is easy to fill in ways that are not good. Anger often comes rushing back to fill that vacuum and has to be held at bay. It takes energy. 

But if that documentary taught me anything, it's that so much of our power as artists lies in our ability to use what materials we have - what emotional materials we have - and create something that clears away the dust. Forgiveness of ourselves and others helps us be better artists. Emotions are malleable materials. We constantly edit them just as we do our art. Whether you sing, act, dance, write, paint, create in other ways, the ability to manipulate your material is at the very heart of what you do. Emotion, forgiveness, is no different. It serves a purpose. It informs how you mold your reality.

I know that as a writer and musician, I've had many moments where revealing emotion comes at a cost, sometimes high (like crying on stage. That was awful). But it's an investment you have to be willing to make to grow in any capacity.

Shane's beautiful poetry comes from such an investment. It has a price. But it also has a benefit.

This is perhaps too much thought that's gone into this one small encounter, so I leave you with this poem of Shane's. If you do get a chance, check out the documentary (I hear it'll be on Knowledge Network in Canada in the next year or so).

At the Center

I come from a collective culture. A sense of community is central to who we are. We congregate for celebrations, to mourn, to organize. My family unit, though not terribly prone to sharing all of our feelings, watches out for its members. We take care of each other. We put the feelings of others first before our own.

I have been thinking a lot lately about this notion of collective consciousness. It brings with it great gifts: a sense of unmatched empathy, an urge to help those who suffer and an ability to organize ourselves around a cause.

I have also realized how difficult it can be to take yourself apart from this collective and to put your own feelings at the center of an experience.

In collective cultures, we are raised with the understanding that being overly concerned about how you feel is selfish in a way - self-centred at worst. We are often allowed to feel and mourn for a limited amount of time before we need to go back into the fold of our collective and to help those who are possibly suffering more than we are, or somehow need us to step up for them.

But when we limit our ability to process our own feelings and thoughts, we truncate our experiences in a way that is not beneficial to anyone in the long run. Not being able to put yourself at the center takes away parts of who you are, your ability to form ideas and judgments and your ability to provide skills to a greater cause.

It sounds wrong to me, and it always has to be self-centred. But redefining it in terms of self-consideration is much more helpful. When we are caught up in in something - be it some greater societal cause, a relationship, work - we don't take time to consider ourselves. To be self-centred, means being at the centre of your own experiences, to have the permission and capacity to own your own person.  If you are tired and washed out, you have nothing to give. You cannot pour from an empty cup.

One of the greatest things that I have learned to do is replenish so that I don't negotiate parts of myself away. Those pieces of ourselves go slowly over time, without us noticing. Until at the end, we are left tired and depleted.  We are, at the very end, not responsible for how others process and handle their own feelings. We are only responsible for how we react, process, and reflect back

Our ability to understand the plight and joy of others is perhaps one of the best things about us as a culture.  In a time where we surely need it more, it bodes well to consider ourselves in equal measure as we consider others, to not criticize those who cope in different ways than us, and to understand that everyone is out to survive the only and best way they know how. 

I continue to consider myself. I also take the opportunity to question myself and to be accountable to a better version of myself. I think if we all start considering ourselves, we will add to our collective humanity, the best parts of ourselves. And in the end, that's a collective everyone wants to be a part of. 

Naming Rights

I have been thinking a lot about names lately. I've been thinking about them because of the Oscars and because of Jimmy Kimmel. Here's a link describing his treatment of names slightly outside of his norm. He managed to make the name of the first Muslim to win an Oscar (the wonderful Mahershala Ali) into a running gag for the entire show. Not only was making fun of someone's name the very basest of humour, it was insulting, bigoted, and juvenile. Making fun of someone's name is something an elementary school bully might do. In fact, I have been the direct recipient of such name-calling and it can be damaging.

People with unusual names (like Mehnaz!) know all too well the daily tribulations of having these names. "Is that how I pronounce that?" is something that I hear far too often. I work in an office of hundreds of people and I show up at meetings with my colleagues ready to spell out my name. I am overjoyed when someone pronounces it exactly correctly I usually give the barista my nickname (Meena) when I'm waiting for an order because it's far too difficult to explain my real name.

My mother chose my name. She wanted a Muslim name that was unusual in our community of Ismailis, but nothing too outlandish sounding. She asked my father which he'd preferred between two names and he chose Mehnaz. I suspect he might have chosen it because there is a very famous singer by the same name and we are a musically-minded family. It is not a common name in the west, but it is incredibly common in Iran (it is after all, a Persian name), and other parts of the world with large Muslim populations.

Had we continued to live in our enclave of Ismailis in East Africa, my name wouldn't have caused many to bat an eye. Sure, it's not Aliya or Alisha, but it rolls off the tongue after a little while.

But we didn't stay in East Africa. We moved to a country full of Jessicas and Benjamins and my name wafted through the air like curry in an office lunchroom. I never hated my name, but I tried to find ways to ease the discomfort of others who couldn't pronounce it. When they would ask whether they had pronounced it correctly, I would make a flippant remark that I didn't really mind as long as the first and last letters were in the right place. In essence, I was letting them define me.

We see that in a society where different cultural values aren't always respected, choosing a name can be an indication of how malleable and easy parents are trying to make their children's lives. In the Muslim community, where identity politics is a critical juncture, names that are easy, hybridized, and pronounceable are used more and more. Strongly ethnic or cultural leaning names are no longer the order of the day. We are choosing to sanitize names because a Khadija might be stopped at airport security, but a Jenna might slip by (both Muslim names, both beautiful). We choose these names because Adam might have a better chance at getting the job than Shiraz. I can't say that I'm not just a little bit relieved that my last name isn't strongly Muslim-sounding. It's nebulous enough to confuse people before they give their heads a shake and the moment has passed.

Names afford us social license, whether we think about it or not. And that social license can easily be placed in the hands of others. But to accept the terms of others is to deny our own history. My mother chose my name. My name meant something to her, whether it was just how it sounded, the arrangement of the letters, the meaning. All those make up my history. And that history is important. To apologize for that history is to diminish it and yourself.

To accept a name without judgment, to think of it as beautiful, regardless of its rarity is to, in turn. accept another human being as legitimate; it means that we are saying, you have a story and a history, you mean something to the world, and I will endeavour to say your name as it was meant to be said because it is something of an honour to know you.

Whether your name is Sarah or Sharifa, your name matters. You deserve to have it pronounced correctly by the barista and you deserve to make space for your own history.

For more on names, you can watch this lovely talk by Duana Taha

Helpful Conversations

The other day, a very good friend of mine and I were chatting and she decided to bring up a topic of conversation that is strictly a hands off topic for me. It concerned a relationship with someone in my past who no longer shares my present. Now, I am not one to deny past events, but I find it more useful to not dredge up things that don't serve me now or later. 

I have had a discussion with this friend about this particular situation and to please not bring it up. I was a little blind-sided by it. I'm not sure what her intentions were: whether she was trying to find out what this person was up to, or get more information, or whether she was simply forgetful. It's hard to say, but it didn't sit well. And to tell you the truth, I've been grumpy about it ever since (admittedly my stubbornness is a strength but also a weakness).

I've been thinking a lot lately about the helpfulness of the conversations we have with each other. Most of us are open and willing to let our boundaries be semi-permeable. Our flexibility is what makes people good friends, good spouses and good parents. The same arms that are open for a hug to a crying friend, can be used to shield someone from pain. The same words that can bring comfort, can be barbed if the intention is different.

In a time where conversations are critical to building bridges, we are reaching out to more people than we would normally reach out to. Social media has been a big part of this. Between our disbelief, the use of humour, and if-then situations, we've all been talking to each other. It is now more important than ever to have conversations that help us move forward. We can share in each other's grief, and panic, and humour, and joy, but all of it is for naught if we don't stay sensitive to people's boundaries and communication skills. Here are a few things I've learned in sharing conversations with others over the last few months.

1. Ask yourself whether you're honouring someone's sensitivities: If you rolled your eyes at this, don't worry, I'm rolling mine too. I sound like I should be wearing a crown of flowers. But the point here is important If something is particularly painful for a person, respect that they might be sensitive talking about it and try not to push the issue. They may need the time to process it, or they may never want to speak about it. It's not your call to make.

2. Ask yourself if you're being helpful: Sometimes being helpful means shutting your mouth. If you are talking just to add a voice, ask yourself whether this is what the conversation needs. Is it worth your time to argue with an egg?

3. Keep the prophesying to a minimum: Conspiracy theories are fantastic fun if you're watching the X-Files. But as far as you and I are concerned, none of us know anything about what tomorrow will hold, and whether the most recent article on CNN will be right or wrong. Prophesying leads to fearmongering, and unfortunately, that spreads like wildfire.

4. Listen: You don't need to talk all the time. Someone needs to listen too. 

5. Accept that you don't know everything: It's easy to google things and sound smart. Lord knows we've all done it. The Coles notes version is not always the most accurate because it misses the nuances. Accept that you might just know a small part of the story and either learn more, or talk on terms that are aligned with what you know.

Last Monday, I fired up my email at work early in the morning. I had an email from a senior colleague titled "Reaching Out". He wanted to see how I was doing after a rather tough weekend for the world. He mentioned that he was there to support how he could, and would like to have a chat about how he could be useful.

I have worked with this colleague an awful lot, but we have mostly kept it professional and our tea room chats are generally about what I'm reading lately. I tend to keep my personal and professional life strictly separate. This was, however, one of the most thoughtful emails I have received. It offered help, it added action, and it respected my boundaries.

It is lovely to be part of a group of people who help each other along. Action is important, but usually starts with words. Words hold incredible power to help others rather than merely take up space. We move forward when we employ them with the intent to help each other move forward.

Sanity in Troubling Times

What can we even say about the last ten days? The world appears to have been turned upside down and everyone just seems to be scrambling to make sense of it all. Common sense is at a premium, and well-being is being seriously compromised. If you are like me, and the millions of people around the world, you have yourself tapped into news almost all waking hours of the day.

Between "What happened now?" and "I can't believe it" we are caught up in a barrage of arguments, support, tweets, retweets, water cooler conversations, protests, letter writing campaigns, and pulses of information. For me, between the immigration ban and the shootings at the Montreal Mosque, it has been a tough weekend. We have to ask whether we are taking care of ourselves and of each other. This post is reminder to myself, as much as it is to others around me.

Here are a few things that we can all do to exercise compassion, get rest, rejuvenate. The fight is long. Don't burn out.

1. Unplug. No seriously. Turn off the computer and TV and get away from the media for a few hours. It doesn't matter what you go to do. The world will continue on when you're not there. The minute bits of information coming in will still trickle in. Go away. Come back when you've caught your breath.

2. Respect your own limits. We are addicted to the drama of our daily lives lately. And for some of us, it's far too late before we realize we have burned out. When you start feeling emotionally overwhelmed, or angry, or upset, know that this is your body telling you that it has reached its limit. Respect that.

3. Go outside. Whether you're heading to nature, or to your coffee shop, go somewhere else and enjoy being in places you want to be in. For me, it's the water. I head there when I'm feeling weary.

4. Respect others' processes. We all have different lenses and different priorities. We all process things different. Some people shut down, others might lash out. Respect other people's processes. Vocalize your own. You can talk when you are ready. You may never and that's okay too.

5. Connect with kindred spirits. My family and friends are important in my life (I don't always tell them this, because feelings). Reach out to others to see how they are. Ask for help when you need them too. 

6. Have helpful conversations. It's easy to bloviate, to predict, to place bets. Easy, but not always helpful. It never helps to argue with someone who isn't respectful of you. So know when it's no longer helpful and learn to walk away.

7. The basics. Eat well, practice sleep hygiene, get your exercise. The basics are what fuel us daily. Remember that they don't go by the wayside because that means you'll be at the wayside.

8. Do your fun thing. Go do something that makes you happy. I love to read, and I find myself doing lots of that. If you love to hike, knit, cross-stitch profane tea towels or write letters, go do that. Go do the things that help your creativity. It's important to occupy all the spaces in your life.

9. Stay away from your triggers. This is important for anyone who struggles with impulse control. I love sugar and when I'm stressed, I want to eat all of the cookies. If someone tries to get in my way, they risk having their arm bitten. If you know and have your triggers, try to stay away from them. You generally end up in a far worse spot than initially. I end up with stomach aches.

10. Seek professional help. There is no harm in it. If you need it, see a doctor or counsellor.

For those who need something else to concentrate on, but don't have ideas:

Z-Type - Typing game where you get to laser shoot words.

The Dollop - A hilarious history podcast that has had me in stitches for weeks.

Poorly Drawn Lines - Comics by Reza Farazmand

Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee - Such a great show. Jerry and his buddies are awesome.

The New Yorker Shouts and Murmurs section - They aren't all winners, but some of them are very funny.

Partita by Adnan Saygun - for the musically inclined, hear this piece played by Yo Yo Ma. It's a favourite.

On Truth and Listening

I am deeply, comfortably introverted. I accept (more or less) this part of my nature in all its book-loving, quiet-seeking, ardently-creative glory. For as long as I can remember, I have always asked questions so that I could listen to the answers. I didn't divulge much and I still don't tell everyone everything that is going on with me. That is a privilege that is earned. I am, however, very good at listening. 

Listening awards us so many gifts. For one, it allows us to plug directly into ideas that are not our own. It gives us perspectives that we might not have considered. It enables us to get a whole slew of ideas to form interesting patterns from. It gives us the benefit of creating "character profiles" of the people we are listening to, so that they are more colourful, more poignant and more human than any one interaction. As friends, colleagues, family, listening is to our greatest benefit. It is not only sensory (we have ears!), but supersenory - letting us form ideas that go beyond the medium of reception.

But what happens when we are confronted with ideas that we can't easily sift through to categorize and apply? What if, for some reason, we're faced with information that, at first blush, doesn't seem accurate? Perhaps it is even purposefully misleading? What if it straddles that very fine line between truth and fiction?

People who meditate often talk about the idea of detachment, whereby  a person engages with something without judgement, without wanting to pigeon-hole it into a particular ideology. Letting the idea come and go without conscious attachment. I like this idea but it doesn't always make sense in a world where we are forced to make decisions about how we feel, and how we should act. To detach from the ideas that come at us, is in some ways, a disservice to action when it is required.

How do we then, reconcile ourselves to common truths without owning every idea that comes at us? The answer to me, has always been to listen deeply. Listen to context. Listen not only to words, but how those words are applied - what are they in the service of? Have they been weaponized? Do they offer anything, and if so, what do they offer? What is the path they have taken to get to us?

As a reader, I've made it a sort of passion to play with, and learn from the works of others. I can't take it all on board because my brain would be filled to the brim. But after a long time reading someone's work, you start to see and hear the patterns that govern their lives, the part of themselves that they readily exploit, and the parts that they artfully dance right around. 

One of my favourite quotes - it is written on the inside of my work notebook - is by the glorious and effusive Anne Michaels from her first work of fiction Fugitive Pieces: Truth grows gradually in us, like a musician who plays a piece again and again until suddenly he hears it for the first time." 

Truth is sometimes like that. It's not always obvious, even though it's obviously there. We are absolutely mired, some days, in inflammatory rhetoric, cat photos, and for whatever reason, celebrity bottoms. But beyond the cats and bottoms, if you take one moment of sit down and digest what you know, perhaps file away the things that don't serve purpose, perhaps not shout at others who are also under the weight of their own ambiguous truthy burdens, there is a place where listening pays off.

I often work in silence. I sit on my couch, facing a large window, and the only thing I can hear is the whoosh of traffic outside, and the buzz of the refrigerator. These are the moments I take for myself to listen to myself, and to take what others are saying into account.

Not everything the world offers us is truth. Truth is found in patterns - not patterns that are coerced to fit an idea. These are naturally occurring patterns - they emerge, over time, by themselves, until they're too obvious to ignore.

But they only become obvious, if you sit. And you listen.

Some useful things to read:

Julian Treasure on 5 Ways to Listen Better

How to Be a Good Listener

Becoming Wise: An Inquiry into the Art of Living