Something From Everything – reflecting on the events and ideas surrounding us to discover meaning and connections

A New Way To Listen

Click above to listen to Matt read this post to you. He might even sing (briefly)

Listen. All around me is a wall of sound.

From a great distance above, we might look like wildflowers. I am in a crowd of thousands, each of us brightly coloured, each standing tall and swaying slightly, as if we were all blown by the same modest wind.

Up close it feels more like a spiritual ritual. Individuals lost in a collective. Our inspiration and expiration synced together, the palms of our hands coming together in time with the music.

I came for the concert, but I also came for this experience.To stand on the sloping hill of the natural amphitheater for hours, feeling the ache in my calves. To hold an overpriced beer in a plastic solo cup in one hand, and a melting ice cream cone in the other. To both watch and join in a performance. To add my voice to that great chorus of strangers. To sing words both familiar and strange.

The band’s first ending occurs at 9pm, but I know it’s a feint. We all know it. All around me there is shuffling, the packing up of picnic blankets and ground level camp chairs, the preparations for a hasty exit. We’re preparing, but we’re not leaving. We still haven’t heard some of the best tracks from the new album, and I know that the local bylaws shut down all live music at 10pm.

We have time.

Sure enough the band reappears shortly, and to my immense pleasure, their final four songs of the evening are all deep cuts, one all the way from their initial 2004 EP, Cherry Tree.

For their final song, the bright lighting fades to only the faintest of stage lights, and the horn section starts in low as the singer and musicians step away from their microphones. They all step to the very front, and the lead singer steps impossibly close, his feet partially over the front of the stage as he arches his back, and bellows to the amphitheater:

“Vanderlyle, crybaby cry,

Oh the waters are rising, still not surprising you.

Vanderlyle crybaby cry.

Man it’s all been forgiven, the swans are a swimming.

I’ll explain everything to the geeks”

If you’re not a fan of the band “The National“, I’m pretty sure that last part gets lost in translation. But this is the song, the one each of us hopes is the last song of the evening. As I look around me, everyone is singing those lyrics. And not just mouthing the words, but bringing them forth from the deepest places in them. I saw a few eyes closed, I saw a couple crying, overcome with the emotion of the moment. For a brief while, we all spoke the same language.

Is it strange then that I have absolutely no idea what most of the words in that language mean?

And not just the words of that particular song. All that evening I had been singing along to words I knew, without a comprehensive understanding of what each song meant. And the same could be said of the lyrics of many of my favorite songwriters. As long as I’ve been listening to music, I have been practicing, performing and projecting poetry to the air that I love, and I don’t understand.

It’s possible to know all the words, to feel their resonance deep within you, and still lack a comprehensive understanding of a song. But this shouldn’t surprise me, as I could say the same about most poetry. Songwriters are poets, after all.

For most of my life, (written) poetry has been a mystery, sometimes even a frustration. Despite appearing in books, most poetry is not served by sitting down and reading quickly from start to finish. Even a short poem can be deceptively daunting. If you handed me a paragraph of prose, I could likely understand it on first read. This is almost never the case with poetry. If you are uncomfortable with ambiguity, a poem can drive you mad.

But perhaps poetry isn’t just another form of a message. Poetry (both sung and spoken) evokes the truth of that old adage, “the medium is the message”. If the overarching meaning of a song or piece of poetry eludes me, perhaps it is designed to be elusive.

A few years ago, I discovered a (now beloved) podcast devoted to making poetry more accesible. The podcast (“Poetry Unbound” with Pádraig Ó Tuama) is both brief and brilliant. Each episode, the host reads a poem slowly, then reflects on it for a few minutes, and ends the episode by reading it a second time. Interestingly, the host’s reflections on the poem were rarely explanatory. Instead they tended to be curious and personal musings about how a phrase was significant to the host, the sound of a particular section, or what imagery the author might be inviting.

Somehow, this helped unlock poetry for me. Rather than miraculously understanding the entirety of a poem, I began to appreciate the parts I didn’t understand. I would take an episode with me while walking, washing dishes, driving to work, or any number of everyday solitary tasks. I could save my favorite poems, play a short episode multiple times, or just listen to the sections where the poem was read aloud.

Unintentionally, listening to poetry allowed me to turn the dial down on my analytical mind. I didn’t have to know what each line meant, or even what the whole poem was saying. I could appreciate the articulation of the words, the intentional structure of a given line, or even a particular phrase or word that resonated.

I was embracing partial understanding. I was valuing repetition and memorization. I was enjoying structure separate from the comprehensive understanding. I was starting to listen to poetry the way I had been listening to music for years.

It’s absurd that I had never appreciated the poetry that was always the most accessible, snuck in so many of my favorite songs. But despite my ignorance, all that sung poetry had been doing something important for years. They have been teaching a new way to listen..

We know and value if something is true when we hear it, even if we can’t articulate why or how it is true. And good poetry is always uncomfortably honest. But because we don’t fully understand what we are hearing, our brain is stuck with the paradox of considering something that is both valuable, and ultimately unknown.

Our analytical mind, excellent at categorizing and judging, does not love this. Our mind likes to know the summarization of a story in advance. We like to know if a thing is good or bad, helpful or harmful, useful or useless. Good poetry just smirks, and says “good luck trying to figure out where I fit”. A line from your favourite poem or song could be any of those things. It could be a few of those things all at once.

I think it’s worth keeping a few unresolvable tensions in our mind. Remind that computing brain of ours that much of our life is difficult to neatly judge and categorize. Remind ourselves that we don’t have to fully understand a thing to enjoy it and be swept up in it. Remind ourselves that the parts of our lives are beautiful and worthy of curiosity, enjoyment and wonder, even and especially when we can’t comprehend the whole.

We can find a new way to listen. To our songs, to our poetry and to our lives.

Maybe a line from our favorite poem or song can help us think this way.

Or maybe it simply brings a smile to our face as we sing along.

(Which means it’s already working).

Liz Gilbert and Her Twenty Foot Portrait

May 23, 2023 / matr / 0 Comments

Liz’s portrait was at least 20 feet tall.

The auditorium was buzzing, vibrant with the hum of hundreds of excited, imperceivable conversations all around me. At the front of the stage was a giant picture of the author Liz Gilbert, author of a number of bestsellers, including “Eat, Pray, Love”, and “Big Magic”. She holds her face in her hands, a knowing and weary smile just touching her lips and eyes. It was the face of someone who had a secret, but held it in a way that conveyed both apprehension and excitement.

In front of the giant portrait sat a massive audience. The theatre held nearly a thousand – a completely packed out show for this venue. Some members of the audience had young unblemished skin and tight curls. Others stood hunched, their faces marked by age spots, laugh and worry lines etched deep, and had brilliant silver hair that had long since transitioned. One mother brought her daughters, no more than ten years old. Many brought their moms.

Notably, the audience was almost entirely women. As we walked towards our seats, I

I estimated that there might be 10 to 20 men in the whole auditorium. I was struck by how unfamiliar that felt to me, how rare a thing to be in a space completely dominated by women.

I laughed at the strangeness of it. This tour was based on “Big Magic” – a book about living a creative life with wholehearted courage. When the tour was announced, I was reading and enjoying that book, so my partner had purchased these tickets for me as a gift. But no one looking at this audience would ever believe that the evening was for me. I looked the part of an unfortunate and unsuspecting husband, dragged along on his wife’s insistence. The optics of it were immediately apparent to my wife, annoying her and giving me no small amount of amusement.

My partner and I remained mostly silent as we took our seats, aware of the buzz of expectant excitement all around us. The space was pregnant with anticipation. But anticipation for what? We didn’t know exactly what this evening would be. The book “Big Magic” had been released years ago (in 2015), and Gilbert had written a handful of books since then that didn’t seem to be a part of this tour. Would she be reading to us from the stage? Was this even a book tour?

We started the evening with so many unanswered questions. And Liz Gilbert’s 20 foot tall sly smile wasn’t giving out any answers.

And then, with a brief introduction from her publisher, the real Liz Gilbert emerged. Dwarfed under the backdrop of gigantic portrait, Liz appeared positively pedestrian in her short cut hair, thick rimmed glasses and black pants. The audience erupted with applause, and then settled into attentive silence.

And then the real Liz Gilbert spoke.

For over an hour, she held our collective attention fast. There was no covert multitasking, no faces washed in cell phone glow checking time or notifications. Instead, there were bursts of laughter, there were murmurs of agreement, there were fingers slid across eyelids, wiping away the occasional tear. There were gasps of shock, the collective indrawings of breath, and the smiles of understanding and connection between complete strangers.

And then it was over. Leaving us grateful, contemplative, and a little confused. As we left that auditorium and walked along the busy sidewalks to our car, we wondered aloud what, exactly, we had just seen.

I wouldn’t describe the event as a comedy show, despite some of those tears being those of laughter. It was not strictly a motivational speech, despite the fact that many of us came away profoundly moved, and motivated to approach our lives with renewed passion. I also wouldn’t call it promotion, despite the fact that I came away with even greater interest in Liz, and her writing projects.

At its core, the event was a surprisingly simple one. Years ago Liz had begun writing out advice and observations on how to live a creative life beyond fear, and was suddenly confronted with the realization that she had better practice what she was preaching (or “smoke what she was selling”, as she put it). Liz committed to follow her curiosity and creativity wherever it went, even (and especially) when it terrified her.

It was a performance, certainly. There could be no doubt that the material of the evening had been meticulously practiced, curated and masterfully performed. Sitting down to listen to someone talk for a solid hour could either be a joy, or considered a form of torture. But care had been taken with this evening and these stories. The audience knew they were in good hands from the first moments. No joke felt canned, no story over dramatized, no life lesson fabricated. It was a practiced and performed testimony of authenticity and courage.

Those two traits are actually inseparable. You cannot have one without the other. Those who aim to be brave and courageous without authenticity are really only posturing. Those who dare to be authentic, to be fully themselves, they require the courage to look both within and without with clear eyes.

And the fact that it was practiced and performed did no disservice to the truths being told. If anything, it made our ears and hearts more receptive to them. We might think the courageous and authentic person is one with no filter, who immediately speaks their truth to any and all who will hear it. But we all know what it feels like to talk to someone like that (perhaps we have occasionally been someone like that). It feels like there is only one voice in the room. But that is a very selfish way to be authentic. Each interaction involves at least two people. Liz’s performance considered and cared for her audience. It also cared for her stories. Our stories and learnings are worth safeguarding and cherishing. We need to consider if, when, and how we will share them with others.

If we take the care that our stories and gained wisdom deserve, we will find that they are invaluable treasures. For ourselves chiefly, and occasionally for others. That evening wasn’t captivating because of Liz’s particular set of skills or status as an accomplished author. It was captivating because she was authentic and brave enough to gather those stories, and careful and considerate enough to share them with us thoughtfully.

It was her humanity, rather than her celebrity, that called to each of us that evening. Our stories, gathered and shared with care will always be more enticing than our accomplishments.

Liz Gilbert, the New York Times Bestseller and celebrated author who travels the country with 20 foot tall promotional portraits was pretty impressive.

But Liz Gilbert, the creative, courageous and considerate human, was even more so.

Of Tofino and Time

April 15, 2023 / matr / 0 Comments

Time doesn’t seem to affect Tofino.

If you haven’t been to the small town perched atop the peninsula on the westernmost end of Vancouver Island, I can’t recommend it enough.

It’s well worth a visit. Maybe multiple visits.

This past spring break our family visited Tofino, and repeatedly drove between the 40 km highway between it and the neighboring town of Ucluelet. This area largely consists of the Pacific Rim National Parks reserve, and it is an undisputed embarrassment of natural riches for hikers, surfers and beachcombers alike.

All along the coast, dense rainforests filled with old growth cedars, douglas firs and western hemlock give way to driftwood laden sandy beaches. Our family spent five packed days walking the famous long beach and nearby coves, scaling jagged rock formations, and peering into tide pools. We stood under natural hot spring showers, and huddled in shallow sulfur rich pools. We navigated roots and ropes on vertical climbs, and trudged through mud that threatened to swallow our hiking boots whole (and once did). We climbed up cascading (and oftentimes precariously leaning) staircases, and placed countless steps on winding slick rainforest boardwalks.

And each time we would come to an expansive vista, or monument, or even a familiar food truck or surf shack, I would be hit with the same deja-vu-like feeling: that this moment was both novel and familiar. I felt as if I kept stepping into moments I had lived before.

Because I had.

As mentioned, Tofino is worth returning to, and this was my third visit to the area. My partner and I had camped near these same beaches nearly two decades ago when we were newly married. We returned again nearly eight years ago, with three young kids in tow. But of both of these previous trips, I have only the faintest of memories. Orphaned images, largely without connection or context.

Tofino is not unique in this, unfortunately. I’ll often find myself in familiar feeling situations, or re-introducing myself to someone whom I had met years earlier. In my immediate family my long term memory shortcomings are often the discussion of playful mockery.

But for some reason, this particular forgetting disturbed me. A place this breathtaking, and the memories made here, should not be so easily forgotten.

My partner has no such difficulty remembering these moments. In jest, or to assist my remembering, she uncovered some photos from our initial visit long ago. There was the indisputable proof: There we were, the people we once were, hair longer and lighter (unkempt and frizzy in the rainforest humidity), no wrinkles on foreheads, nor any deep creases around the eyes and mouth. There we stood, in a landscape that seemed untouched by time, posing on the exact same walkways, beaches and taco stands that we would visit so many years later.

The chronological distance from this picture felt unmeasurable. How much time had occurred between these experiences? Years? Moments? Lives?

What is the value of those experiences we don’t remember? An unfamiliar face smiling back at me from the photo would be less disturbing. These memories might as well have belonged to someone else. Someone who could recall them.

Frustration at myself, even self-loathing, waits at the door.

Excuses are there, if I want them. The passage of time takes its toll, as does sleep deprivation and the busyness of a household filled with young children. We’ve been fortunate enough to go on a lot of road trips, and see a lot of beaches in those nearly two decades, certainly there is some overlap and errors in recording, muddying the mental timeline.

But even reasonable excuses won’t protect me from the nagging suspicion that I’ve been missing out. And not just on memories of these specific trips. But from thousands of moments half lived, and soon forgotten. That regret will come not from making the wrong choices, but from distractedly sleepwalking through this one wild, and precious life.

In the midst of this trip, I began to think about the wonder about time, and the memories I was currently making. If I could remember more, perhaps time would not feel stolen, but full. Saturated. There I was, staring out into that endless ocean, my anxious, chattering internal dialogue quieted by the constant, cyclical roar of the sea. I want to take it all in, the rocks, the sea, the salty air. I want to cling to it, stubbornly, the way all these barnacles cling to the rocks beneath my feet.

I try to unroll time both backwards and forwards. I Imagine myself in another decade or two, reflecting on this moment, remembering each and every detail. What will that memory (this memory!) look like?

I recommit myself to taking in all that I can, even as I am unsure how. I take fewer photos, knowing all to well that the collection of images is a poor substitute for memory. Instead, I find myself taking mental snapshots, interrogating moments. I watch my youngest make a collection of shells for a hermit crab he’s found, and notice behind him the glasslike reflection of the early morning sand. I see the pride of my 13 year old, holding trepidation in check as he climbs above the crashing waves of an outstretched rock. I feel the thumping in my chest as I climb vertically amongst mud and roots that serve as both step and obstacle. I watch the way my eldest’s hair dances in the wind as she scours the horizon line of the sea for fin or blow. I stare at the unexpected head of a sea otter, surfacing in the immediate wake of our boat.

I take in more. I take in the best salmon taco I’ve ever had. I take in gelato ice cream so good we end up returning three days in a row (lavender honey BTW, barely gets the nod for the communal favorite). I take in the sounds of aggressive and hopeful crows that stand sentry at each and every food truck, stroking their beaks in hostile anticipation.

I take in the inconvenient and unpleasant. The copious amount of smoke from waterlogged firewood. The inflation of every grocery item or side of fries. The feel of my feet as I step into still damp shoes from the night before. The toilet that threatens to overflow due to a temperamental septic system.

I take it all in. Or at least I try to. I keep taking it in, like an impossibly deep breath, filling my lungs with salty air until they’re ready to burst.

And then I hold it. As if that act can cement all of these memories. As if the sheer force of will will capture the entirety of these moments. Eventually, I release the tension, expel the air from my aching lungs.

Now, back home and a few weeks later, I’m not sure how well I’ve done. Have I paid close enough attention? Will this vivid memory be the same in a year? In ten? In twenty? Time will tell.

And perhaps even more importantly, how will I view time, then? Will I see it as something scarce, something relentless and fleeting, never once stopping or even slowing down to make sure that I am paying attention?

Or will I see it as generous? Not only for the time it has already given me, but for those moments where it seemed to tap me on the shoulder and say “look how many moments we have already shared” and “here is another”.

How could I see time as anything but generous? Time has already given me enough of itself that I have both experienced, and forgotten, thousands of moments. And despite this, despite all that I have squandered before, time repeatedly shows me a brand new moment, filled with both novelty and familiarity.

And when I find myself frustrated at all that I have missed before, time never seems vindictive or punitive. It simply asks, over and over, “what would you like to pay closer attention to, this time?”
And I breathe in, grateful for one more chance to try and take it all in.

The Cost of a Thing

March 8, 2023 / matr / 0 Comments

The ad stares up at me, accusing.

I don’t even remember pulling the phone out of my pocket, or clicking on the app. But I know what I was doing the moment before. I had just stepped away from the desk, away from the computer, and away from (yet another) half-written, half-baked, soon to be abandoned post. Writer’s block had reared its hideous head. It looked less like a blank screen, and more like a thousand false starts. Like a loss of conviction.

I had turned towards my favorite distraction, an online marketplace, mindlessly mining the dopamine rich combination of shopping and unpredictable rewards, and avoiding advertisements which seem to occupy more and more of my screen. But this ad was effective, stopping my thumb mid swipe:

“Hate writing blog posts?” it asked.

“No!… I just…its just… it’s been a while”. The defensive response in my mind trailed off.

I read on.

The advertisement was for automated blog posts, generated by artificial intelligence. If I wish, an exchange could be arranged. I part with some money, some key words, general direction and desired tone, and the AI chat bot will make a post that is intelligible, the exact length I desire, and is even laden with my favorite phrases. If the program is intelligent enough, and I give it enough raw data to work with, the program may even sound… just like me.

Anxiety over content creation could be a thing of the past. No more half written posts, no more writer’s block. Pure productivity.

Or so the advertisers promise my soul.

There is truth to that promise of productivity. The number of AI created or assisted projects in this world are increasing drastically, and set to explode exponentially.

You are no doubt familiar with the widespread breakthroughs of artificial intelligence programs in recent months. Images created on programs such as DALL-E 2 and Stable Diffusion are widely shared on Discord, Facebook and Instagram. Open AI chat programs such as Chat GPT and Bard AI are answering questions and completing requested tasks in natural sounding language. Already these most complex AI programs are remarkably accessible, but soon they will be even more so, integrated fully into the world’s largest search engines.

There is a lot of discussion, sound reasoning and wild conjecture about the near future that is being shaped by AI right now. But one thing is undeniably true: the toothpaste is well and truly out of the tube. We’re not going back. We can’t. In addition to the widespread AI created images on social media, AI art is being utilized in film, architecture, and fashion. As I’m writing this, Chat GPT is credited as co-author to over 200 books listed on Kindle. AI narration is being promoted by Apple Books, set to create instant audiobook equivalents for each written work uploaded. Soon, it will be impossible for high school teachers and university professors alike to discern what papers are written “the old fashioned way” rather than AI assisted (or even wholly composed).

This is perhaps where AI programs are poised to be most utilized: those banal and everyday projects we’d rather not labor at. That program that transcribes workplace meetings and then turns that transcription into meeting minutes and lists actionable items. That school essay on the merits and drawbacks of such and such. An AI narrated audiobook in a distinct vocal tone rather than hours spent in front of a microphone. Even an easily compiled blog post, for when you hate writing blog posts.

But do I?

Do I hate the reality of writers’ block? The hours spent trying to write something meaningful without success? Deleting pages of previous written material when you come to the unsettling conclusion that it’s just not good enough? Yeah, I hate that.

Does the student hate the hours researching and note-taking, the hard work of understanding themes and synthesizing data? I know I have.

Does the author hate all the hours spent reading aloud material they’ve already picked over and edited a hundred times, only to find a new turn of phrase that sounds forced or awkward? I’m certain they must.

But I’m not ready to automate these tasks, either.

It’s probably important to note that I’m not a technophobe. I am writing this post on a computer after all, not typing on a typewriter or scribbling the letter forms by hand. And I appreciate that if I wanted to record by dictation and transcription, it would make me no less an author.

Advances in technology and automation always disrupts, always displaces, and also creates new, unforeseen possibilities. I can hardly imagine how many brilliant creations will come forth from people who have never felt talented enough to write a song, paint a picture, or craft a story. I am as entertained as anyone at the bizarre and beautiful visual creations being created and shared. I am both fascinated and unnerved by how human sounding AI created essays can be. Along with the (very real) fear of job losses and downsizing, is a potential increase in workplace productivity that I don’t think even the most forward thinking of us can adequately get our head around.

If these tools are enabling and amplifying the work we want to do, then we should all raise a glass in celebration. The world needs more imagination, more stories, more art. But if these tools are used primarily for outsourcing and automating our lives, we should consider what the true personal cost might be.

As Henry David Thoreau so accurately perceived, “the cost of a thing is the amount of what I will call life which is required to be exchanged for it, immediately or in the long run”. The ‘long run’ is the caveat here. The immediate exchange is incredibly appealing: decreased effort for increased efficiency and productivity. The longer exchange is much more hidden.

There is so much life buried in the mundane, monotonous or (even) despised elements of our work and play. Consider the way that seemingly unrelated and independent pieces of information can give way to larger themes when studying. When listening to recorded audio, we can hear the difference between words that are merely read aloud, and the almost tangible sense that the orator is creating and safeguarding a sacred, shared space for the listener. Our greatest artist’s illustrations always reveal something of themselves, not only the scene they are trying to produce.

What’s being undervalued in these discussions is process. An outsourced, automated, quicker process may be the aim of companies and their advertisers, but the individual may want to consider the value of process.

I know that each time I sit down to create a thing, it never reveals itself all at once. I don’t know how an AI program would help me with this, as much as it irritates and perplexes me. I know the way a good question stays with me, gnaws at my awareness. Like I’m trying to complete a second hand jigsaw puzzle that I’m not even sure I have all the pieces to. But I also know that frustration and curiosity are strange bedfellows, and that I pay more attention when I can feel that I’m missing something. And I also know the pure joy of discovery; that moment of clairity when you uncover what has been hiding in plain sight the whole time.

So, no. I appreciate the offer, but I won’t be outsourcing even the most infuriating aspects of my writing, or my life.

I recognize that I could have created hundreds of generated essays in the span of writing this one. And I don’t doubt that those essays would have been entirely readable, maybe even humorous, intelligent and wise. And that my productivity could be so much greater.

But it wouldn’t be worth the cost. Not in the long run.

It Can Be A Lot Of Things

December 23, 2022 / matr / 0 Comments

Reflections (on reflections!) and on how this season can hold contrasts and contradictions

We loaded the family into the car on the coldest night in nearly a year.

Despite having started the engine prior, we slid onto still frozen leather seats, listened to the car hinges creak in objection as we closed the doors, and shivered in place as we watched our breath form and then dissipate before us.

Considering the cold, there were remarkably few objections from the back seat. This was one of our favorite Christmas pleasures, even if it was a simple one: the annual hunt for the best and brightest lighting displays in our city.

We started the holiday playlist as the car began to lurch forward, wheels crunching into the squeaking packed snow beneath. Soon we would be singing along to “You’re a Mean One Mister Grinch”, arguing whether “Last Christmas” was so bad it was good (or just plain bad), and musing over how the most popular version of “Sleigh Ride” could be both tacky, and a classic.

We ignored the price of gas as our hunt took us from one end of the city to the other. We turned indiscriminately down promising looking side streets, where luminescent bulbs beckoned us closer. We marveled at lights wound tightly around branches of towering maple trees. We admired restrained displays of outlined awnings, windows and door frames.

And then we observed the spectacle.

We drove wide eyed past whole communities illuminated in blinding lights. Past icicles that fell in cascades, past houses bathed eerily in a crimson red glow, past strobing lights spelling out Christmas greetings. Past inflatables and animatronics. Past snow capped and illuminated Nativity scenes, Santas, Frostys, Minions and one adventurous Grinch dangling from a line of lights strung up between two unified neighbors.

But all of the illumination of that neighborhood, the pomp and the pageantry, was positively subdued compared to what came next. A single house dazzlingly lit with over 18,000 RGB pixels, casting Christmas music by FM radio to any and all passers by. Each new song was accompanied by coordinated lighting, scrolling lyrics, pixelated graphics displayed on the main living room window, and a snowman whose digital face mouthed each and every word.

We stared into this stranger’s front yard and windows for a long while, while upbeat, bass pounding songs about angels and stars and saviors and snowmen washed over us. To my kids, it seemed pure magic. And I sat there, marveling at the work, the cost and commitment, the extravagant production of it all.

It would have been a fitting end to the evening. But we had one more sight to experience.

We had all seen the Tree of Hope before, of course. A great glowing tree of nearly 50 meters is hard to miss, and easy to spot from any number of surrounding communities and side streets. It is easily my favorite holiday decoration in our city. A sight both grand, and restrained. Gigantic, yet simple in form. Over 25,000 LED bulbs, but all a simple white. Luminous, but also transparent. I have admired this landmark for as many winters as I have been in Kelowna, but until recently, I had never come right up to it.

You really should though. Things can look very different up close.

We were able to park just feet from the attraction, and stepped out of the car into the bristling cold. Our kids reluctantly posed between chattering teeth in front of the tree, and then immediately ran back to the warmth of the still running car, shortly followed by their mother. I stayed a while longer.

Up close, the ‘tree’ didn’t resemble a tree at all. Staring up into its latticed, crane-like centre column and surrounding metal rings, it looked much more like a construction project than a living thing. The countless strands of vertical lights quivered and knocked against their anchors in the winter wind, as if they were also shivering in the cold. There was no warmth from those lights, and despite their great number they seemed feeble in contrast to the endless black sky above them.

How strange that drawing close to something would reduce it. I turned towards the car, towards warmth, and towards home when something flickered in my periphery. It was another illuminated Christmas tree, this one lacking no radiance. This one seemingly alive, shimmering and dancing, shifting with my every step. It was an illusion, of course. The windows of the surrounding office buildings had reflected the original tree, but the oppressive darkness and imperfect reflections restored both its tree-like shape and glistening brilliance.

I returned to my family, to the heat of the car, and to the next shuffled song on our holiday playlist. But in the days that followed, I thought a lot about those shimmering trees. About how the same thing can both disappoint and surprise us. About how something can be both less and more than it appears.

Christmas is a complicated season. A season filled to the brim with story, meaning and expectations, but also filled with contrasts and contradictions that can be hard to get our heads around.

Christmas is sing-alongs in the car, but it’s also being annoyed by that same music in the mall. It’s thoughtful presents for those you love and cherish, and it’s fretting over bills and inflation. It’s loud, boisterous gatherings with friends and family and it’s craving a quiet moment alone. It’s dazzling displays, but during the darkest days of the year.

The tree is luminous, and it’s just a piece of construction. It’s pure magic, and it is simple illusion. All of these things can be true at the same time.

If this time of the year leaves you conflicted, both entranced and skeptical, both excited and exhausted, then there is nothing wrong with you. You are allowed to feel it all. Christmas can be all of that.

This season can be a lot of things. I hope that it is merry and bright for you.

But I don’t imagine for a moment it’s only one thing.

________________________________________________________________________________________________

Thank you for reading! I wish you and yours a very merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year!

The Time It Takes

November 30, 2022 / matr / 0 Comments

The fall was entirely my fault.

It was July, and our decision to camp near Lake Chilliwack was centered around the surrounding mountains and extensive hiking options. The day’s excursion was to the top of nearby Elk Mountain. It was only 3.5 kilometers from the parking lot to the summit, but hidden in that very pedestrian sounding distance was a demanding 800 meter elevation gain.

At the start of the trailhead I selflessly offered to take the leash for our excited pup, and selfishly attached said leash to the waist strap of my hiking backpack. 60 lbs of furry, slobbering, whining, barely constrained excitement became my own personal beast of burden, continuously pulling me forward up the mountain, my arms once again free, hiking poles stabbing rhythmically beside me.

Even with the (considerable) assistance, I was panting and breathless by the time we reached the summit.

By the time we had refueled and rehydrated, I was no longer breathless. But I was exhausted. The heat and elevation had spent me, leaving me weary even before beginning our return. We began our slow, cautious, thigh burning descent, and the worst guide dog in existence remained foolishly tethered to my waist strap.

I hardly remember the fall. A ledge of no more than 3 feet appeared in front of me, and I turned suddenly to the left to side step it, at the exact moment that my beloved dog leapt over the ledge, pulling me unexpectedly forward and downward with such momentum that I fell hard on my right chest, and was dragged along the ground for several feet.

For the longest moment there was only the panic of being unable to breathe. Bent over on all fours, head low, flirting with losing consciousness. My mind screamed at my body to take a breath, and also calmly reminded myself that it would be a few seconds until I would be able to do so. When I could finally breathe, I heard the gasping, agonizing cry as if it were coming from someone else.

Breath returning, I sat up and stared at my left hand. The pain to my chest was so all consuming, that I saw my disfigured digit before I felt it. My thumb had become tangled in the wrist strap of my hiking pole, and was now turned unnaturally sideways. I took a deep breath and returned it to (more or less) proper alignment. All while the adrenaline was still surging through my body. All before any member of my family had reached me.

It was a long, painful hour until we reached the car. Another hour until we had reached the hospital, and many hours before an Emergency physician would wrap my thumb in a splint and tensor and tell me that I had fractured the distal tip of my thumb, but that it was (more or less) in proper alignment. What he did not say – what he did not see behind the swelling, high patient demand and short staffing was that I had also severed my ulnar collateral ligament, requiring imminent surgical repair. It would be two whole weeks until this information was discovered at a follow up appointment.

I was squeezed into surgery the next day. The plastic surgeon reconnected my already receding tendon, and placed my hand in a (new) immobilization splint. After the two weeks in the initial splint, I would be in the second splint for six weeks. Then a month in the third, and the beginning of hand therapy.

I suddenly had the summer off. A difficult feat in most professions, nearly impossible in nursing. I would not be able to return to my regular work in the emergency department for another two months, until my ligament had the strength to handle the strain of regular work, and the stability to remain attached if my hand was unexpectedly grabbed, hit, or overextended during an emergency (all distinct possibilities).

I lost track of the number of times coworkers joked that I had fallen on purpose. Made the calculated decision to throw myself down the cliffside for an extended vacation A thousand variations on “anything for a few days off, hey?”.

I admit, it was not horrible. My days were early morning walks before the rest of the house had awoken (with my partner holding the dog’s leash), extended afternoons reading in the backyard or beach, sitting out on the deck with my family playing cards, and picking up my love from work in the sunny afternoons to explore each and every new microbrew that had recently sprung up.

But neither was it ideal. I was frequently frustrated with my new limitations. Future camping trips were cancelled. Biking and swimming (two of our most frequent summer activities) were impossible, and pain was a constant for the first few months. Previously routine activities were unexpectedly difficult. I couldn’t grip socks with two hands, shirt buttons were nearly impossible, turning a pepper mill was a challenge. Each and every day I would discover a new mundane activity that was now challenging or impossible.

More than anything though, I began to wonder if my hand would ever return to its former state. Progress felt agonizingly slow; exchanging one splint for another hardly felt like forward movement. It was two months before I was even allowed to move my thumb, and when I finally could, I spent hours flexing and extending it, watching as it moved unevenly by a meager few degrees despite considerable pain and effort.

Every few weeks I checked in with my hand therapist and received a new regimen of exercises and stretches. Each time she inquired about my pain and daily activities, and would measure my grip strength and angles. Each time she was happy with my progress, but I always wanted more. I worried that my sensation felt abnormal, or that my thumb would become fatigued after only a few exercises, or that my flexibility or strength wasn’t where it should be.

My therapist, with decades in this particular, specialized field, with a wealth of knowledge and experience, placed a hand over my splint and held my gaze.

“It’s fine, Matt. Really. You’ve done what you can. It just takes time”.

I wonder how many of us need to hear those words.

I know we’re just talking about a thumb. My thumb. And my specific accident and surgery and recovery. But I can’t help but wonder, how many of us are staring at that thing that is wounded, that thing that is in recovery, willing it and wishing it to heal, to advance, even to return to what we enjoyed before. Maybe it’s your own injury, maybe it’s a wound from the past that won’t stay past, maybe it’s a relationship, maybe it’s your community or even all of society. How many of us are impatient, frustrated at the seemingly glacial pace of progress – if we even believe that progress is occurring at all?

I’m not naive enough to think that time heals all wounds. Left untreated, time will only cause some untended wounds to fester. Had my tendon not been reattached properly, had I not been splinted, and resplinted (and respinted) properly, had I not received and practiced helpful stretches and exercises, time would not have been kind to this wound. We (and others) have a considerable role in our healing.

But sometimes everything that can be done, has been done. You have done all you can, and all that remains is time and patience. The average recovery time for my injury and surgery is three to four months before grip strength returns, but up to a year before “full recovery”. I needed time and patience. Now, nearly five months after my injury I can see and feel the progress, but I still get impatient.

It will take the time it takes.

There is no established timeline for some recoveries, of course. But with certainty we can say that it will not come as quickly as we would like it to. We want to see our growth and healing and progress over minutes, hours and days, not months or years or lifetimes.

But it will take the time it takes.

It takes incredible courage to take the long view. To do all the work and exercises we know how to do, and trust that our wounds will continue to heal in their own time. We might not have the vision to see it ourselves. We might not have that level of trust in time.

But we do not wait alone. Perhaps someone can lend us their perspective. Someone who has gone before us, who cares for our healing and wholeness. When you need them, may you hear the words of someone much wiser, much more experienced than yourself.

May they place their hand upon yours, and look you straight in the eye, and say:

“It’s okay. Really. You’ve done what you can. It just takes time”.

And may they be right.

The Work Ascribed To Spirits

October 20, 2022 / matr / 0 Comments

Come to hear Matt explore the competing tensions in the creative process. Stay to hear Matt butcher Chinese name pronunciation.

“I just feel like… if I stop pushing this boulder uphill for a second, it’s going to start rolling back downhill again. Maybe even run me over”.

There is a delicate balance to sharing with strangers on the internet. This man’s comment was entirely too honest for comfort.

The group he was addressing was an online writing community, and one I valued being a part of. Some online creative groups are merely thinly veiled self promotion machines. This group celebrated each other’s accomplishments, gave feedback (when invited to), and twice a week wrote together (separately) over video in silence, excepting the occasional rustle of papers or laptop keys tapping in the background.

And occasionally we aired our (uncomfortably honest) frustrations and disappointments with our creative endeavors, and the success (or lack thereof) we found in them.

“I just wrote a great piece for a local magazine”, he continued. “For a few days, I had a big increase in traffic to my website, even a few signups to my newsletter. But a week later, those same traffic numbers were down, the lowest they’ve been in over a year”.

“I mean…does any of this have any momentum if I stop pushing – if I’m not constantly selling myself?”

There were a lot of murmurs of agreement. That one hit close to home.

It would be one thing if our entire collection of writers were simply novices, lacking the necessary experience, skill and discipline to create something worth reading. But this was a talented group, littered with notable accomplishments. Many of them have written articles regularly picked up by well known websites and print magazines. A few had written novels distributed and produced by respected publishers. A handful were creators of top ranking podcasts. At least one had quit their day job to pursue writing and creating full time (and though they might be hungry or even malnourished, they insisted were not starving). Many had received various awards that all said, in essence: “It’s Good. Keep Going”.

By many metrics, these were successful writers. But these “success stories” didn’t feel very successful at that particular moment.

A week later, another “successful” artist posted online about a recent windfall:

“I just hosted a book signing and meet and greet at the largest bookstore downtown in Vancouver. On a Saturday. My publisher was so excited! I was so excited! I was there for four hours. I sold three books. What am I doing wrong?”

This is hardly a new phenomenon, and even the greatest writers of our time don’t seem immune to this disappointment. In her seminal book on writing “Bird By Bird”, Anne Lamott reveals that after her first book was published, she abruptly realized that “it seemed that I was not in fact going to be taking early retirement”. She then explains that similar self inflicted expectations for fame and fortune would be repeated and dashed with the publishing of many of her subsequent books.

Of course this disappointment is hardly the sole possession of writers. Some form of “what am I doing wrong?” has likely been asked by countless souls in all fields of creative work, especially after some encouraging success.

It seems we all look for the momentum to build. We all check our website traffic or total downloads too often. We all hope for that viral post, that golden opportunity, that windfall. We all prepare for the fanfare and fame. We all secretly dream of early retirement.

We all want to be “successful” artists, but with each new and fleeting success, our frustration and disillusionment grows.

Could it be that we’re assuming at the wrong target altogether? Perhaps we’ve been measuring our success but the wrong metrics. Maybe we need a new vision for what the work even is.

One of my favorite written works, “Poem of the Woodcarver” (a Taoist tale, usually attributed to Chuang Zu) addresses the complex relationship between creativity and creation, pride and prosperity, work and wonder.

Allow me to share it with you:

K(hing), the master carver, made a bell stand of precious wood.

When it was finished, all who saw it were astounded.

They said, it must be the work of spirits.

The prince of Lu said to the master carver:

“What is your secret?”

Khing replied: I am only a workman: I have no secret.

There is only this:

When I began to think about the work you commanded I guarded my spirit, did not expend it on trifles, that were not to the point.

I fasted in order to set my heart at rest.

After three days of fasting, I had forgotten gain or success.

After five days, I had forgotten praise or criticism.

After seven days, I had forgotten my body with all its limbs.

By this time all thought of your Highness and of the court had faded away.

All that might distract me from the work had vanished.

I was collected in the single thought of the bell stand.

Then I went to the forest to see the trees in their own natural state.

When the right tree appeared before my eyes the bell stand also appeared in it, clearly, beyond doubt.

All I had to do was put forth my hand and begin.

If I had not met this particular tree, there would have been no bell stand at all.

What happened?

My own collected thought encountered the hidden potential in the wood;

From this live encounter came the work which you ascribe to the spirits.

That’s a course correction, isn’t it?

The Poem of the Woodcarver does not fix nor address any of the (legitimate) disappointments of my writing group, or my own. Understanding the concepts in this poem will not increase readership, will not procure book deals, will not increase website traffic or newsletter sign ups. It will not sell more books at book signings.

All of those concerns and hopes are understandable and familiar, but they are also secondary, illusionary or even distracting.

The Poem of the Woodcarver is a tale of singular focus. That is what both infuriates and intrigues me. I want to know how to see the bell stand within the tree and be paid and praised for it! I want to write the work that is true and transcendent and increase my web traffic and downloads! I want to write the novel, and get the publishing deal. These things are deeply entangled, but they are not at all the same. The master carver needed to forget about success, esteem and even his own self for a time. There is a reason he fasts and does not enter the forest for seven days. It takes a long time to let go of the wrong metrics.

Fortunately, the poem also offers us some much better metrics and enticements as well, even if they are more exacting and illusive. It reminds us that there is some deep work of infinite value that has nothing to do with the summons of royalty or the court (success), nothing to do with praise or criticism (self worth) or even our own self (ego). It reminds us that there are some works of art so sublime that they are both timely and timeless, natural and otherworldly.

The poem asks – if we can only choose one focus, what will it be? How do we guard our spirit?

Those few who have gone before us, who have revealed their own works of art have the honesty and decency to simultaneously disappoint, and encourage us. The work of creation is ultimately it’s own reward, and one of incomparable value. Immediately after Anne Lamott warns of the many pitfalls of publishing and chasing professional success, she comforts her afflicted reader: “publication is not all that it is cracked up to be. But writing is. Writing has so much to give, so much to teach, so many surprises”.

This is the work worth guarding our spirit for, worth collecting our mind for, worth developing the sight for, and worth stretching out our hand for.

Maybe we write that viral post, and maybe we get the publishing deal, and maybe we sell out every copy we have on a weekend.

And maybe we don’t.

But we get to experience and share that live encounter at the intersection of our preparedness and life’s wild, hidden potential.

We get the chance to reveal the staggering beauty, hidden in plain sight.

Maybe even something ascribed to the work of spirits.

When You’re Ready

September 15, 2022 / matr / 0 Comments

A September story of the first day back to school, of the need for wise teachers …and brave students.

My youngest son was ready at 6 am.

Ready in spirit, in attitude and excitement of course, not ready in any tangible or physical way. The schoolbag was yet to be filled with indoor shoes, a lunch pack, and water bottle, and my son’s face still had traces of honey and peanut butter at the corners of his lips, his overgrown summer hair hanging messily just in front of his eyes.

So much for our intentions of a clean haircut before this, the first day of school. Oh well, enough pomade can wrestle down even the most stubborn of hairs, faces can be rewashed, and bags can be packed quickly enough.

If he wasn’t ready in spirit, the physical stuff wouldn’t amount to much anyway.

My children are all excited, in their own way. One is physically vibrating as they ask me (for the third time that morning) about their classroom number and teacher. One has worn an old kitchen apron to the table and sits well away from their siblings, so as not to catch an errant crumb, drip or stain on their crisp, first day outfit.

It is a marker of a good summer when our children both mourn and celebrate its ending. Each child has relished in a season without early morning alarms, in lazy mornings, in lake and pool days, in camping and movie marathons and (dearly needed) gatherings with friends. But brevity certainly adds to summer’s incomparable value. The crisp cool mornings of fall were coming soon, and bus schedules, overfilled backpacks and classes would soon come with it.

I swear (though my kids would never, ever admit it), that by the end of summer they might even long for those days.

And now those days are here.

We finish the physical preparations. Ice packs slid covertly into lunch kits, water bottles filled, tightened (and inverted for good measure), bus route information confirmed, repeated and then texted to each of the older children (also for good measure). Then the herding of ~~cats~~ children onto the front yard for the obligatory (but no less important) back to school photo. We abandon the traditional doorway and steps surrounded by dried and dying potted plants, and opt for the healthy lilac tree overlooking the street below. I take multiple photos in quick succession and find at least two of them usable.

Good enough.

My youngest and I make our way to his school. Tables have been set up beside the playground, accompanied by sitting volunteers holding class lists and facing directly into the bright morning sunlight. A kindly woman smiles, squinting despite her sunglasses, and directs us towards the appropriate door. When we reach the classroom my distracted son attempts to walk directly through the doorway before being abruptly halted by the outstretched arm and outward facing palm of his new teacher.

“Where do you think you’re going!?” she playfully growls, furrowing her eyebrows before relaxing her whole face into a wide, natural smile. She introduces herself to us both, and my son laughs nervously, gives me the briefest of waves, and then darts inside, disappearing behind a corner.

I am momentarily unnecessary, and I am grateful for it.

Grateful for this teacher, and every other amazing teacher our family has had the privilege of knowing. Grateful for those who partner with us to shape and draw out our children. Grateful for all of those who are prepared enough, patient enough and audacious enough to choose the role of ‘teacher’.

But there’s also something audacious in those who choose the role of “student”.

Not for my son, of course. Not for any of my children or others still in their youth. Those in their first two decades (wisely) get little say in the matter. But for those of us who have seen a few more decades, who finished our formal education a long time ago, the prospect of becoming a student can seem strange. If you are like me, walking your own children to school, reminding your own teenagers of their bus routes, and finding yourself the same age (or older) as your children’s teachers, perhaps the term ‘student’ even seems regressive.

And once we’ve finished with clasrooms and lecture halls, who exactly would be willing to take on this mantle of “teacher”?

Perhaps more than we had ever considered.

Perhaps we need a better education on how to find these teachers, and how to be a student. Because they are two sides of the exact same coin.

A while back, I realized that I was developing a different relationship to some of the voices speaking into my life. Some of these were mentors and colleagues whom I interacted with regularly, but others were authors and speakers whom I had never met (and some had even lived and died long before I was born).

All of these voices held knowledge, of course, many of them specific expertise. But some of them called out for reciprocation. They were filled with possibility, with a palpable ache in their voice for their hard won wisdom and learnings to be both acknowledged and absorbed. They sounded like teachers, calling for students, beckoning them inside their classrooms. The fact that we might be estranged by a great distance, culture and time never seemed to bother them.

Or at least, that it is how they sounded, to me.

For years, I’ve thought on the adage, “When the student is ready, the teacher will appear”. What is it that makes the student ready?

Maybe simply the decision to become one.

Perhaps the teachers were always there, waiting for their students to take on that all sacred role, to sit down humbly and ask “what can I learn from you today?”. Perhaps we could ask that question of anyone, and be surprised by how many great teachers we are surrounded by.

Paradoxically, the teachers I admire most seem to accept themselves as students, as well. These are teachers whose extensive experience only increased their commitment to curiosity. Their world was always becoming larger, more complex, never simpler or smaller. These were teachers who were courageous, humble and mature enough to never abandon the role of student.

And despite all that knowledge, and all that wisdom, and all that expertise, these class lists are never truly full. These teachers are always taking on new students. Maybe someone they instruct from the front of a class or lecture hall, maybe someone they sit down with on a regular basis over a cup of coffee. Maybe someone they correspond with online. Maybe someone who hears their words from a great distance, written many down many years ago.

Maybe someone like you, or me.

Because we will never stop needing great teachers. And there are so many, ready to appear.

When we’re ready to be students.

Full To Bursting

July 27, 2022 / matr / 0 Comments

Summer is full to bursting.

I’m on the Kettle Valley Railway trestles, tentatively watching as my youngest son nervously steers his bike towards the center of the planks, his hands rigidly in perfect position, the rhythm of his pedaling unwaveringly steady. I mention the rock formations above and to our left, but my son’s eyes remain fixed, straight ahead, uncompromisingly focused.

He is neither relaxed nor comfortable, but he has crossed seven tressels so far this day without issue. I call it a win.

I’m at the Starlight Drive In in Enderby. We arrive early, play keep away with the soccer ball and frisbee under the giant white screen as we wait for dusk. We set up deck chairs around the hitch and fold rear seats flat. The children bury themselves in blankets and then wrestle and barter for optimal seating positions.

When the movie starts the bass from the rear subwoofer is blurry, the mosquitoes are all feasting on us (despite the liberal application of dollar store insect repellant), and each child uses the washroom at least once through the course of the movie.

Still, pure magic.

At one point a child extends their head backwards over the tailgate and complains about the movie being upside down. We consume salty popcorn and nachos that dry out our mouths and way too much artificial queso cheese. We catch glimpses of the distant northern lights in the eastern hills. We argue at the end of the first movie that 3:30am is not an ideal time to be arriving home after a double feature, and 1am is plenty late already. We vow to return and make poor sleep decisions in the future.

I’m at Tickleberries, reading aloud the names of each of their 72 flavors of ice cream as we wind our way through the switchback isles. I don’t get through all the flavors. I spend a long time arguing that a child’s cone is perfectly appropriate for a child, before eventually conceding to a single scoop. The “single” turns out to be closer to a triple, and the “double” far more ice cream than anyone should ingest in a single sitting. We take our towering cones outside to share with the sun and wasps, and my youngest gets through most of their top scoop before the soggy ice cream cone caves under the weight, spilling blue and orange all over the hot cement.

I’m at Red Bird Brewing, sharing a table with my love and a few friends we have known for years. We’re talking about events from over a decade ago that I can scarcely remember. We talk frankly about the trauma that one of our friends endured, and all the ways it broke them and strengthened them. We think about the times we were there for each other, and the times that we weren’t. We apologize with downcast eyes and wistful smiles. And then we laugh raucously at a remembrance from our ignorant youth. We drink spectacular Saisons and Hazy IPAs, and devour delicious woodfire pizza cut with kitchen scissors.

I’m at home. It’s late at night and I’m creating a grocery list for camping, confirming schedules with friends for an upcoming trip and staring at my rapidly filling calendar. I’m looking at the handful of remaining dates unspoken for in August, and it feels as if summer is already drawing to a close, just as it starts.

When you start to feel like every single available moment is spoken for, it’s hard not to feel the tug of scarcity. You can already see September coming. That there is not enough time, and before you know it, another summer will be gone forever.

But summer is anything but scarce. It is filled with early morning walks with the dog, with late evening paddles on glass-like water, with trips to the farmers market (and the accompanying stuffed bags filled with fresh beets, peas, apricots and strawberries), and countless other moments both pedestrian and sublime. There’s very little scarcity in summer. Summer is full to bursting. The scarcity resides in me.

For years, I felt like I was squandering each and every summer, especially when I moved to the Okanagan. Our summers really are spectacular. But between short summer staffing, limited and highly contested vacation time, a shortened season of clear skies due to wildfires, and wild, ambitious plans for epic adventures both home and away, each September would leave me filled with regret for all we couldn’t do.

Summer seemed filled with endless possibility. But my time, energy and resources were always finite.

As it is for each and every one of us.

Think of it this way: Summer is an all you can eat buffet, and even if you load your plate to the very edge, and pile the food high, and return multiple times, there will always be infinitely more on the buffet table than you can possibly consume.

We are both blessed and cursed by possibility.

Possibility is a tricky concept. It can open us up, cause us to dream and plan and hope. But it can also close us off. Leave us wishing for more, leave us ungrateful for the gifts we have right in front of us, leave us staring up at the buffet table, rather than every good and appetizing item on our overflowing plate. Possibility can hand you something delicious, and leave a bitter taste in your mouth.

If we imagine summer as a fraction, our experiences over every possibility, then our results will always seem frustratingly small. But if we see each and every experience as a whole? Not divided by possibility but simply possible, in this moment? That changes the equation entirely.

Ultimately, that’s what each of the above moments were: whole events, undivided pleasures, absolute gifts. I know that there will probably be many more, and by the time September comes, less than I might hope for. But that’s just me looking up at the buffet table again.

Because each of our plates are piled high with mouthwatering moments. Worth being grateful for, worth taking our time with, worth savouring.

Because summer is full to bursting with moments.

And I want to be full to bursting too.

Playing With Uncertainty

June 30, 2022 / matr / 0 Comments

Matt relates an exhilarating/ terrifying day, and investigates the relationship between uncertainty and wholehearted living

“Come for a ride” they said, “it will be fun” they said.

They were right.

Earlier this spring a number of my friends and colleagues at the Emergency Department were meeting up for a day of mountain biking at Smith Creek, a popular bike park in West Kelowna. Under the promise of “lots of easy trails for beginners”, I loaded up my bike in the pouring rain and headed to the trailhead, wondering what, exactly, I had committed myself to.

I had reasons for concern. Biking is a sport with nearly religious devotion within our department, with many converts sporting new and impressive injuries regularly. Bruised shoulders, cut up lower legs and shins, and even the occasional broken collar bone or rib fracture. And that’s to say nothing of all the biking injuries that we triage and treat on a regular basis. They have seen what this sport can do, and somehow, they are still hungry for more.

I’m relatively comfortable on a bike, and no stranger to winding, narrow rails in the bush, but most of my riding these days tends to be on wide, family friendly trails along mission creek, KVR or the greenway.

With between 400 and 700 feet of elevation, ramps, drop offs, ladders and tree bridges, Smith creek was slightly more technical.

From the parking lot, the park opens vertically before you, the long climb up filled with winding, switchback trails filled with narrow turns, plenty of roots, cobblestones and the occasional boulder. I quickly found a group of friends who were mostly intermediate or beginner downhill riders, and occasionally the towering pines would open before us, offering a panoramic view of Okanagan Lake, a reminder of just how far we had climbed and the promise of the downhill before us.

As we approached the intersection of our downhill trailhead, I heard wild hollering above me. A series of riders flew past, and I watched in amusement as a colleague, usually reserved, calm and cautious at work, came barreling through the trees, his dog chasing close behind him. He launched his bike over the ramp before us, and disappeared into the trees below, his excited yells still echoing behind him.

The beginner riders in our group looked at each other with equal amounts bewilderment, anticipation and trepidation.

“Well, here we are”.

And with that short statement of acceptance, we began our descent.

Our first section of the trail was a series of downhill switchbacks. It was also a series of learnings in very quick succession. A (hopefully crashless) crash course on downhill biking. I learned quickly the danger of the front brake. That when traveling at a steep incline, you may not want your front wheel to abruptly stop spinning. Unfortunately, the rear brake is also hazardous, as clamping down on that brake repeatedly caused my back tire to skid, threatening to lay my bike down under me as I leaned into a tight turn. Counterintuitively the greatest control was found with wheels were spinning freely, feathering the brakes rather than gripping them tightly, and committing to the forces of gravity and momentum, rather than fighting against them with each new section.

I began to see the track in these small, segmented sections out of pure necessity. The trail was diverse and varied: steep slopes followed by straight (ish) sections, narrow turns through the trees followed by open expenses. I imagine a more experienced rider would come to enjoy the flow of the trail, and begin to see each section in its connection to the whole. But as this was my initiation, I was just trying to survive. A quick visual scan ahead, and an equally quick decision and commitment to the approach of the next 20 meters, the next ten seconds, the next turn or ramp or landmark. Scan, commit, attempt. Again and again.

This stunted and sectional approach served me well. I survived each new challenge, each new sheer drop or tight corner, often with greater luck than skill, and arrived back at the parking lot with only minor injuries.

Our group of amateurs and intermediates were grinning at each other like cheshire cats. I felt like I had achieved something monumental, but I also realized that this too was likely a result of my inexperience. Certainly the more seasoned riders were not clapping each other on the back for merely surviving the trail. Perhaps some of them would even be yawning, bored by the familiarity and ease that experience had bought them.

Of course, this was not the case. Every rider, without exception, was grinning. Conversations focused on a particular section that surprised or challenged them, a turn they could have taken better, or a jump that always gave them pause. No one was bored. No one had nailed down the “perfect” run. I’m not even sure they believed in such a thing. As familiar as the trail was, no rider was ever 100% certain of what lay beyond the next turn.

Have you noticed that there is a connection between uncertainty and wholehearted living? That those who are most alive and engaged are never 100% certain of what lies beyond the next turn?

We live in a culture that loves the promise of certainty. If you have eyes for it, you begin to see certainty peddled everywhere. If you do this thing, you will get this result. If you buy this product, your life will be better. If you join this group, you will find your purpose and belonging. What is always on offer is the promise of certainty.

When I became a father for the first time, my wife and I felt the immense, black-hole like pull to the promise of certainty. We (obviously) had no idea what we were doing, and searched wildly for the best information on how to raise a child. Seemingly in answer, everywhere we went we would be beset with unsolicited parenting advice. In the line at the grocery store, picking up our children from daycare, at gatherings with complete strangers. We soon learned that anyone and everyone had an opinion on how to raise a child, and behind each unsolicited “tip” was the same promise of certainty. Do this, they said (in a hundred different ways), and your child will turn out all right.

But invariably, each ‘pearl of wisdom’, would be incompatible with our life, or contradict the advice we had just received from someone else. At night, we read giant tomes of parenting books written by authors with PhDs attached to their names, citing exhaustive research. And then we would read another book, from another author with similar credentials and research, arguing the exact opposite approach to “correct” parenting.

For me, there came a moment of clarity, amidst the confusion. “Oh… no one knows for certain”. There was still plenty to learn from every book, every article, even from every unwanted piece of advice tossed our way, but soon enough we learned the liberating truth: there is no certainty, no mathematical formula, no answers that always work in parenting.

Or any other aspect of our life.

In the lack of certainty, we become like the downhill bike rider. We are very interested in the road ahead. We scan as much as we can see of the next section, we commit to what seems like our best actions and approaches, and we move forward with equal parts hope and trepidation. And then we do it again, and again.

That uncertain, liminal space is uncomfortable at the best of times, and occasionally agonizing when so much is at stake. But a bit of doubt makes you flexible. Each parenting approach and decision had to be held loosely, always available for scrutiny, to be discussed and adjusted. An approach that worked wonderfully the first time might fall flat the second. What worked with one child would almost never work with another.

Undoubtedly some approaches were better than others. Some constructive and some destructive. Some wise and some foolish. Sometimes we wouldn’t know which is which until much later. Some we still don’t know. So much of it is still in play.

But play is the right word here, because whether we are talking about biking, parenting, or any other aspect of our life, we are alive in those moments of uncertainty and curiosity. We are playing with it all, even (and especially) when the stakes are high. We know that there is real danger here, so we pay attention.

And even when we gain some experience, learn some lessons, gain some wisdom, we keep playing. We learn that what lies beyond the next turn is never certain, but we also learn that we wouldn’t want it to be. We enjoy being in the thick of it.

We don’t get the false security of certainty.

But we get something much better.

We get to play.

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