Something From Everything – Page 3 – reflecting on the events and ideas surrounding us to discover meaning and connections

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Beautiful and Terrible and Fragile (2021 edition)

We live in a beautiful, and terrifying world. What are we missing when we forget this? What beauty and terror and fragility is hiding in plain sight? Click above for the audio, taken from the Something From Everything Podcast, Episode 13

The hike up to Gold Creek Falls is well worn, appropriately marked, family friendly, and safe.

In fact, the word ‘hike’ hardly seems appropriate. The path to the falls is only a little over two kilometers and on any given weekend in the summer you will find it crowded with tourists and locals alike. The route can be easily traversed in inclement weather, with minimal preparation, and with any manner of footwear (both Crocs and thong sandals have made this trek).

The falls reside within Golden Ears Provincial Park, just outside of Maple Ridge, British Columbia. Sitting in the shadow of the Alouette and Golden Ears twin mountain ranges, the park is home to old growth Hemlock forests and ancient Western Red Cedars and Douglas Firs. Within the park is a large campground where the tops of the trees create a patchy canopy and young kids can be seen running with abandon, hiding among the gnarled and ancient roots, and building makeshift forts and lean-tos with the soft moss and fallen branches that litter the forest floor.

We have camped a number of times in Golden Ears Park, and each time we do, we traverse the well worn path to the falls. On our most recent visit, our family diverged from the crowded path at the midway point, following the river to the base of the falls. We splashed in shallow water running over smooth river stones, and leapt across large boulders scattered near the base of the falls. We baked in the scorching July sun, and then plunged ourselves into the icy pools of runoff some 30 feet from the falls. We would return to the rocks to dry off, clinging like starfish to their surfaces and absorbing their heat, our lips purple, skin pale and teeth chattering.

Then we ventured closer to the mouth of the falls themselves.

The immediate basin of the falls was above us, and partially obstructed from where we were swimming and suntanning. I led the way with my children, scrambling up nearby boulders and edging my way around the largest rock surface, until the basin was in front of me. Only as you turn that final corner do you realize how powerful the falls really are. The same large rocks that had obstructed our view had also obscured the sound of it. A deafening tumult of sound, the force of the water pummeling down endlessly into the basin. The temperature drops immediately, the mist and spray from the falls suddenly everywhere, making each surface surrounding it slick. The torrent creates its own private windstorm, the wind surrounding and encircling you.

I became terrified. It was suddenly unnerving how near the edge I was, and how my eldest child was only a few feet behind me, beginning to turn the corner towards the basin herself. We were entirely too close to something so great and terrible. I yelled for her and her brother to turn around, but my voice was nearly inaudible in that storm. I pointed back the way we came, and held their hands as we edged back away from the falls, and returned to our onlooking family at the edge of the river.

As we returned to the security of the onlooking path, somebody screamed. Continued screaming. A small white dog had been playing with her owner at the top of the falls when it ventured too far and got carried away by the current and pulled over the edge. The owner of the dog continued to scream as she hastily scrambled down the ledge. I returned to the basin I had just left and found her staring wildly and screaming at the roiling surface. I grabbed the largest nearby stick I could find nearby, at least five feet in length, and began prodding the water. I don’t know what I expected, but as I plunged the stick as deep as it could go, I met no resistance. I pushed the stick around the edge of the basin, and it was wider than I anticipated. There was a shelf of rock underneath and all around the edge of the pool. The constant tumult had ebbed and eroded the smooth rock deeper than I could plumb, and wider than I could see from the surface.

We stayed at the edge of that basin for a long while, and eventually the screaming subsided, but we never found that dog. I don’t know if they ever did. A quick online search reveals multiple stories of those who underestimated their proximity to danger. As I write this, four people have died in as many years. I discover a story of a woman who fell over the falls trying to rescue a friend who had also been swept up by the current. I read a story of a 24 year old male who was presumed dead after falling over the falls, search and rescue teams being unable to ever locate his body.

The falls are beautiful, but they are not safe.

I have a picture of my kids and I near the edge of the basin that day. The photo was captured by my wife from a distance, before any of this occured. It is a stunning picture, but to this day it makes me shudder. The scene appears still and serene, completely devoid of the awesome terror of standing at the edge of such brutal force. That day, and the picture of it reminds me how beautiful and terrible and fragile everything was, without my awareness. All at once together, and inseparable.

It’s worth noting that you don’t need to go down to the mouth of the falls to appreciate them. Most do not. You can see the entirety of the falls from atop the high lookout at the end of the well worn path. You can hear the muted sound of it, a low roar that blends seamlessly with the chatter of the onlookers. You might even feel some of the light spray. The lookout is a fine place to take in the beauty of the falls, but it might be easy to forget how powerful they are, or how fragile you are, from such a distance. Indeed, that forgetting might be the greatest danger of all.

Perhaps sometimes we need to be uncomfortably close to see things as they really are. To shock us, to wake us up. To remind us that some things look safe and predictable, only from a distance. That things may appear simple at first glance, and intricately complex up close.

Perhaps when we draw near, quite a few things will reveal themselves as beautiful and terrible and fragile. And worth a closer, trembling look.

Just Beyond

May 17, 2021 / matr / 2 Comments

Come on an a reflective adventure with Matt as he extends his boundaries and muses on David Whyte’s poem, “Just Beyond Yourself”

We made our maiden voyage on Sunday.

It was a perfect day for kayaking. Slightly overcast, not nearly as showy as the clear blue skies and radiant sun of the days preceding. Sunday was noticeably cooler, with endless ribbons of pale clouds weaving across the sky. Through the clouds we could still see the sun and feel it’s warmth upon us, but it was muted.

Perfect.

My partner and I loaded the kayaks onto the roof racks, our old car creaking under the weight as we stood on the wheels and blindly passed the ratcheting straps back and forth. Once loaded, we headed towards Wood Lake, to a quiet pebble beach and our favorite kayak launching point.

Along the way we passed an elderly lady, partially hunched over, carrying plastic plates to a backyard table, covered in bright yellow plastic tablecloth. Table settings were spread around the makeshift dining table, and bright pink and purple Tulips sat in a tall vase in the middle. There was no fence surrounding her backyard, or obstructing our view, and noticing our curious stares, she smiled and waved in our direction.

Further on down the road amidst slow moving traffic and road construction we passed an old steepled catholic church with a line of cars curled around the building. At the front of the line, there stood a priest and nun, dressed in their full robes, with blue disposable gloves on their hands, and their faces covered by a plastic face shield. The priest was blessing and handing out the communion to participants in their cars, extending the bread and wine (or grape juice and wafers for all I know…) on a round silver tray that had been attached to a long, flat stick.

It might have looked ridiculous to some. It certainly would have in any year before 2020. I didn’t find it ridiculous at all. Only strange, and brave, and beautiful. My eyes began to water, and I looked away from the scene, embarrassed at being so unexpectedly overcome. Then turning towards the passenger seat I watched my love wipe a finger along her own eye. We drove forward in silence.

We arrived at the beach and unloaded our kayaks into the water. Wood lake and Kalamalka lake are connected by a narrow channel, and we paddled towards this. We noted rocky outcroppings and small stones clearly visible beneath our boats, the channel far too shallow for any but the smallest and simplest of watercraft. The spring run off will surely raise it in time, and soon enough there will be a cue of boats waiting for their turn through the channel, but early in the season, on this most precious of days, there are no boats upon the water.

From a distance, Kalamalka Lake appears a brilliant emerald green, but on the surface of the water it is dark and glassy, even as a slight wind causes small waves to spill over the nose of my kayak. We navigate through tall reeds that extend beyond the surface of the water, giving way easily as we glide among them. In time these shallow coastal waters will be filled with lilies. This is usually where we turn around, begin our return trip, but not this day. As I look up I find my partner moving away from the reeds and shore into open water, a good 50 feet in front of me. Heading for who knows where.

I am both alone, and tethered.

I catch up to her and we continue along the shore. There is no development here, only nature and endless signs of no trespassing. It makes us want to trespass. Makes us wish we had a blanket and some food for an impromptu, illegal picnic. We continue on, “just beyond”, “just a little further”.

We come across an eagle, perched at the top of a lone solitary pine, higher than all others. We take out our cell phones to attempt to capture her and fail miserably. Our eyes, though not nearly as powerful or clear as hers, do a much better job of focusing on her, obscuring all other objects in our field of view that are not her, then our cameras do. This is a wonder, even as we disappointingly return our phones to our pockets.

We come across a small cave covered in sprayed graffiti. Painted across the rocks are names of couples paired together or encased in hearts, graduation classes of numerous years, illegible words partially covered over, and a beautiful rendition of a raven and bear face to face, and a large smiley face painted over the front of them. The caves are unofficially named after the smiley face that often frequents them, but the placement of it over the scene seems obtrusive and violent.

With each new sight and landmark we discuss turning back. I’ve known for a while now where my wife is leading me. It’s long been a goal of hers to kayak to Kalamalka Lake’s Z-cliffs, a large rock face where the jutting rock and shadow create the shape of a “Z”. We are a long way from where we launched, but the cliffs have never been closer.

In the silent rhythm of watching the coastline and endlessly cutting through the water, I’ve been thinking about David Whyte’s poem, “Just beyond yourself”. On the surface it’s a simple poem, about living beyond your comforts and familiarities, about extending your boundaries. Somehow the heart of the poem has always seemed to elude me. The way all great poetry does, until you’re ready to hear it.

Ready to hear it? Here it is in its entirety:

“Just beyond yourself.

It’s where you need to be.

Half a step into self-forgetting

and the rest restored by what you’ll meet.

There is a road always beckoning.

When you see the two sides of it closing together at that far horizon and deep in the foundations of your own heart at exactly the same time,

That’s how you know it’s the road you have to follow.

That’s how you know it’s where you have to go.

That’s how you know you have to go.

That’s how you know.

Just beyond yourself,

And it’s where you need to be.

(Copyright Many Rivers Press, Langley, WA, USA, from David Whyte’s book, “The Bell and the Blackbird”)

On that day, and most days since, I’ve been thinking about the word ‘just’, how crucial it is. Just beyond yourself. I think of how my sly wife knew where we were going all along, but kept beckoning to the next landmark. How she invites me to expand myself by degrees. That the only decision before us is whether we will shrink or expand? Follow that road, or return home? Retreat, or embrace what is next?

As we glide through the water, the ‘next’ is finally our destination. The cliffs are hidden from sight as we approach, guarded by Canadian geese camouflaged amongst the grey rock face, hidden and spread among the crevices. It is a strange sight and one I’ve never encountered before, these iconic guardians, stationed and keeping watch. As we round the bend in the rock, the cliffs extend as high as we can crane our necks, the slightest rays of sun peaking through the openings at the very top. The cameras come out again, and again fail to capture the immensity of it all. How small you feel in the face of it. But they are still glorious pictures.

At Z-cliffs we finally turn around. We might have stretched the use of the word, ‘just’. All told we were on the water for three and a half hours, and paddled over 15km that day. Later my sore right wrist would turn out to be tendonitis that would require a few weeks of anti inflammatories, compression wraps and rest before returning to normal.

It’s a price I will gladly pay for extending my boundaries, for a day like that.

It occurs to me that this is what all of us are doing right now, and continually invited into. Going just beyond ourselves. That’s what elderly woman was doing, setting tulips on a rickety backyard table. That’s what the priest and nun were doing, extending sacraments on makeshift trays. What each participant was doing, lining up and taking communion in their car. It is what each of us has been doing, willingly or forced, with varying degrees of success or acknowledgement, for just over a year now.

We are beckoned further than ever before. The ‘just beyond’ is demanding and difficult so often. We have been flexible, adaptable, exhausted, stretched and strained. All of it. But we are also greater, expanded. We are further than we’ve ever been before. Far past where we have been previously comfortable.

“Just Beyond Yourself,

It’s where you need to be”.

And it is exactly where we are.

You Get To Choose

April 16, 2021 / matr / 0 Comments

Speaking of choosing! Read, listen, or read along with Matt? The choices are endless! Well… no. Three. You have three choices.

“Who do you want to be?”.

I ask myself this, as I’m staring out the window into a sky of endless grey. It’s early morning and uncharacteristically coldfor April. I’ve put on my sweatpants and running hoodie, stuffed my back pocket with a plastic grocery bag, and picked up the braided leash. I’ve even laced up my worn Adidas running shoes, complete toes peeking through the torn mesh. My dog sees the cues and bolts down the stairs, bashing the wooden screen door open with his nose.

From the front yard my dog looks back at me curiously, his head cocked slightly to the side. Why have I not come through the door? He requires no convincing. I require a little.

“Who do you want to be?”, I ask myself again, this time pointedly. I know the answer. I want to have a clearer head. I want to be stronger. I want to be a few pounds lighter.

(And truthfully I want to guiltlessly eat a donut of my choosing when I meet my friend at a downtown bakery that afternoon).

“Fine”. The resistant me relents. The me that wants to sit on the couch, turn on the fireplace and drink coffee sulks a little, but he’ll get over it. The me that wants to run has already started planning the route.

Stepping out the door, I’m able to see my breath dissipate in front of me. My meager running shirt does little to keep the cold at bay, but I know that will change soon enough. I turn on my running app, cue up my music (that day the eternal voice of Gord Downie), and begin.

The start down the road from my house and soon turn off of concrete and down a muddy path where deep rivets have formed in the previous week’s warmer weather. This morning they are frozen hard, and I have to watch my footing for risk of turning an ankle. It takes me a few minutes before I stop noticing the cold in my fingers. As long and regular as the initial strides are, it takes a while for them to feel natural.

Eventually I settle into my body. Begin to be where I actually am. Now I am passing a marshland near my child’s elementary school. Now I am under tall and unwieldy aspen trees, their long white fingers reaching upward, backed by endless hues of grey. Now I am running along a quiet road, passing under a falcon perched upon a power line. He tracks me as I pass beneath him before unfurling his wings and taking off in flight.

The path I’ve chosen winds upwards into the nearby hills, and I’m already slowing to a walk to catch my breath. I set a point in the near distance. “This far, then I start running again” I tell myself, breathlessly. I do this a few times. It’s humbling as I continually tell myself that that was the last walking break, only to stop again a few heart pounding minutes later. But I am still moving forward, upward.

Suddenly my running app announces my distance per minute speed. It is atrocious, but I am over halfway. The incline that I have been slowly and steadily climbing suddenly becomes a boon. I turn around, and the slow, stunted steps of climbing become full, powerful strides once again. I begin to pick up speed.

By the time I hit my next marker I am nearly sprinting. My heart is beating so hard I can feel it in my head, the music pulsing and obscured by each beat. I finish my run next to the marsh where I started, and as I remove the earbuds from my ears, I am enveloped in birdsong, as quail scuttle for shelter in the bushes beside me, and red wing black birds flit between tree and cattail, their trill call and answer surrounding me.

Despite the running times, despite the grey, despite the cold. It is a sublime moment. A gift, or more precisely, a series of gifts. And for once, I’m grateful for each and every contribution that I am aware of. Grateful for it all.

I’m not often so grateful.

I would like to be. I know that I should be.

Gratitude can feel like a quaint thing these days. A luxury that living in a pandemic does not afford us. “Sure, it’s good to be grateful, but have you seen these numbers? These variants? These restrictions?”. In the backdrop of the past year and a half, gratitude can appear a mindset for the privileged and ignorant.

Many of us have defaulted to skepticism. How could we not? How can we be assaulted daily with fear and not squint suspiciously at the coming days? Our arms folded tightly across our chest. We become caught in the trap of vetting this world, weighing it, waiting to see if it is truly good, really worthy of our gratitude.

And in the meantime, we are missing out. Missing the gifts that are continually given, just beneath our notice.

Our cynicism and skepticism may be understandable, but they are not compatible with gratitude. You cannot hold both at the same time. Go ahead, try it. Attempt to be grateful for someone or something you mistrust. I haven’t managed it yet. It’s a different internal posture.

A friend and writer I admire, Liz Adamshick,has a gratitude practice that she posts online, nearly every day. She writes how she is grateful for “the fresh cut orange next to my morning tea”, or “freeing some saplings of grapevines and blackberry stalks”, or “skillet fried potatoes with a light touch of Dijon mayo”.

Can you feel that? Taste and smell it? See how specific it is? My friend has discovered the same simple secret that the poet David Whyte was speaking of in his essay, ‘Gratitude’: that “gratitude is not a passive response to something we have been given, gratitude arises from paying attention”.

The details matter. Now, more than ever. If it is hard to be grateful for the whole thing, focus on just being grateful for a part. A specific part. The slice of orange. The skillet potatoes. Your dog’s eager playfulness. The voice of your child. Even the grey mornings, worn out sneakers and each slowly drawn breath.

All of these are gifts, if we can receive them. For what is a gift, but something given, and something received? Our world will continue to offer sunrise and sunset, aspen trees reaching out towards the sky, falcons taking off in flight above us. The glory of our world is that it just keeps offering, regardless of our responses.

We get to decide if these are gifts. With our eyes wide open to the particulars, we get to choose if we will be cynical, or grateful.

You get to choose.

So who do you want to be?

February’s Trickery

February 16, 2021 / matr / 0 Comments

Make with the clicking, and Matt will explain why February is the trickiest of all months (though March is pretty shady, too…)

“But I thought it was spring”

On our brief walk to his school, my seven year old mouths these words to me. I can hardly make them out as he’s layered beneath shirt, sweater, scarf and fully zipped up parka. His toque is pulled down past his eyebrows, so that only a thin line of upper nose, cheek and eyes are exposed to the elements.

“All the snow was melting”, he continues. “I thought it was the end of winter”.

It doesn’t feel like the end of winter as we brace ourselves against the gust of frigid air blowing hard against us. I’ve left us just enough time for our walk to school, with few minutes to spare. I don’t want to subject my son to extra time freezing outside on the playground before that first bell mercifully beacons the children inside. But it also means I have to keep us moving.

“Come on”, I reply, a sly smile spreading across my lips. “Let me tell you about February”

My son doesn’t know about February. About how it’s a trickster.

For as long as I’ve lived here, February has tried to trick me. While only the second month of the calendar year, February is first month where I begin to notice the days growing longer. The shortest, darkest days of winter are begin to leave us. And so our mind turns to spring. Maybe we experience a day or two of unusually temperate weather. This is a feign, but we are emboldened. We might brave a walk to the mailbox without a toque or gloves. The most hopeful (or foolhardy) among us may have even begun to move our heaviest winter items to the back or the closet in favor of lighter spring jackets.

“Spring is around the corner”, we tell ourselves. “I can feel it”.

Then it comes. Winter gets its second wind, and it’s a cold one. A new dump of snow when you thought you were finished shoveling. Gusts of frigid air that blow through you, regardless of how many layers you have on. This year it was a ‘polar vortex’, but a quick search of highs and lows from February 2020, or 2019, or 2018 all tell a similar story. Spring may be around the corner, but we never turn that corner in February.

Maybe it’s not February that is tricking us. Maybe we are the ones tricking ourselves.

Hope springs eternal, and hope for spring, annual. It doesn’t take much after a long, cold, dark winter to get us excited for the coming season. We anticipate the smells of spring, look forward to seeing the new buds emerging from the trees. Spring means new, and by each and every February, we are ready it, salivating at the prospect of it.

We long for spring. Perhaps that is why we are so easily fooled, year after year. Maybe that is why we don’t know better, even after so many Februarys. Each year, we continue to look ahead, continue to eagerly anticipate winter’s retreat into spring. And each year we are left waiting, huddled against the cold, impatient and disillusioned, for a little while longer.

Impatient and disillusioned describes a lot of us these days, myself included. We are ready for the new. We are waiting on spring and warmer days, but we are also waiting on our world to return to some sense of normal. Waiting on restrictions to lessen, waiting to gather friends around tables, waiting on traveling to locations beyond our workplaces and grocery stores, and waiting to embrace those loved ones who don’t live under our same roof.

We are waiting, impatiently.

Certainly, we’ve been patient for a long, long time. We have been watching numbers and adjusting our lives for nearly a year now. Kept strangers and loved ones alike at a distance. Our first batch of cloth masks are beginning to wear thin, and now we’re facing the prospect of replacing them anew. My friend lamented the other day that his eight year old daughter, who was born in March, was protesting the prospect of a second Covid Birthday without friends around.

We have been patient. And now? Our patience has run thin. Now we are mostly tired.

This moment feels like the long, slow wait for spring. And just as we are fooled into believing that the first temperate week in February marks the end of winter, we have been fooling ourselves into believing that the next health order, or the next vaccine, or the next downturn in cases will return the world we have been missing for over a year.

Then we are faced with a cold snap. Then, the a new threat of highly spreadable variants that our current vaccines may not adequately protect against. Then, restrictions are held, or heightened, when we had hoped they would be lessened or eliminated. To each, we feel frustrated and betrayed.

It is our hope and anticipation that trick us. It is our longing for spring that tells us that this February will be warmer than those past. It is our longing for our ‘pre-Covid’ world that suggests that we can travel, embrace our friends and return to normal. But none of these hopes or desires are true, yet.

We keep wanting the season to change, and we become frustrated when all that passes are the days. But all seasons are made up of days.

Each passing, freezing day in February brings us closer to spring, even if we cannot see it. Likewise, we can see signs of our way forward, see some of the progress around us. Vaccine technologies which had only been dreamed about and theorized for years are now injecting into deltoid muscles. New vaccines (including those that are effective against new variants) continue to be developed and considered for widespread use. Outbreaks in care homes are decreasing in both severity and number.

Each of these events is worth being grateful for. Each of these, a step closer to the world we anticipate and long for.

But right now, it’s still February. It’s still winter. Spring is closer, but it is still a ways off.

So bundle up. Keep that spring jacket in the back of the closet for now. Those mitts and toques are not going anywhere this month.

The thaw, and green shoots, the adventures travelling, friends around table and loved ones held near are all yet to come.

Just not yet.

Interiors and Exteriors (2021 edition)

February 4, 2021 / matr / 0 Comments

I have been spending hours fixing a single drawer.

It’s our tupperware drawer, which means its use is second only to our cutlery drawer in the kitchen. And it’s been broken for months. The drawer is composed of two components: the rectangular box that holds our tupperware, and the drawer face, made from laminated particle board. The two pieces were held together by two tiny screws. I say “were” because one evening the drawer was closed too vigorously, and those tiny screws held on with all their might, ripping the particle board around them, and causing the damaged face of the drawer to clatter to the ground.

Some of my friends have drawers that you can not slam. No matter how hard you push that drawer, no matter how quickly it initially begins to close, at the end it slows down, nestling peacefully into its home.

I fantisize about those drawers all the time. Especially when my drawer breaks… again.

See, I have attempted to repair this broken drawer multiple times, but a combination of my ineptitude and poor design have undone my efforts each time. I have attempted to fix it with different screws, then with wood glue, then with different adhesives. Each time, I get a little better at repairing this drawer. But each time, it eventually breaks again.

And then I stopped attempting to repair it. We’ve just lived with broken tupperware drawer.

Even without the broken drawer, our kitchen is constantly in need of work. The table in the corner is consistently home to items carelessly dropped upon it, or laundry needing folding, until it becomes nearly unusable for it’s given purpose. Clean and empty counterspace is quickly filled with dishes and used cutting boards. Crumbs, vegetable cuttings and coffee grinds find their way to corners. The kitchen floor becomes filthy mere minutes after it has been swept and washed.

So it goes.

On a bad day, everywhere I look in the kitchen, there is chaos. Other rooms tell similar stories: walls needing repainting, stair nosing that is splitting, clutter needing organization or removal.

Disrepair and entropy on full display.

There is a short story by the author Sherman Alexie entitled “The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven” that I’ve been thinking about recently. In the story, there is a romantic couple that fought regularly. Their fights were epic, and brutal. Huge altercations with the sharpest of words both whispered and yelled. And lamp throwing. Regularly the protagonist would pick up a lamp in the midst of their fights and drop it, or throw it against the wall. After each fight they would pick up a new lamp to replace it. At first from fancy boutiques, then thrift stores and garage sales. Eventually the couple stopped replacing the lamps. Their home was dark. They lived and fought in darkness.

That story is about a lot of things, but one of its central themes is the subtle and even unintentional ways in which a person gives up. Our slow, unintentional descent into entropy. When we stop replacing that which is broken. When we simply accept and live in brokenness.

Now no one in our house is throwing lamps. But is a continually broken drawer really that different? Or a table consistently covered in clutter?

Of course, all of these things are just exteriors, right? Just decoration, just aesthetics.

But what if they’re not?

In Alexie’s short story, the chaotic and destructive nature of the couple’s relationship is mirrored in the broken items, the unadorned areas, the darkened, lampless home. Perhaps in our story, our external environments mirror our internal states as well.

What if a cluttered desk really does reflect a cluttered mind? Or an usable table?

Of course we’re busy. Of course we are tired. Of course I have fixed that drawer before. Of course we have cleared that table and those counters before, only to see them fall into disarray again.

Things seem to fall into chaos so easily some days. Cleaning up after three kids and a large dog can feel like our own personal sand mandala ritual. Sometimes you stop pushing back against the chaos. Sometimes you let the dishes stay on the counter. Or let the drawer stay broken. Or stop replacing the lamps.

As the owner of spaces that are frequently cluttered, dirty or needing repair, I don’t always like what my exteriors would say about my interior life. I would like my interiors and exteriors to be completely divided things, thank you very much.

But I know they’re not.

I know the joy of an open space and unobstructed views to the outside when trying to write. How even the small act of a made bed can make you feel more settled. How a clean sink and countertops can fill you with a simple pride. Even if it’s just for a little while.

Conversely, when my focus and energy levels drop off, the house reflects it. Laundry piles up just a little more. The small acts of tidying up after myself (and others) gets neglected.

The truth is, our exteriors both reflect and affect our interior life.

This is great when it works in our favor. When we enter a space that calms us, such as a walk in nature, or a favorite sun soaked chair where we like to read. But it can also utterly undo us when we’re not doing so well. When I feel anxious, or scattered and distracted, a table full of clutter can feel like more than just an assortment of items to be put away. It can feel like I’m failing at the very basics of life. When you are surrounded by everyday household items in disrepair, it can feel as if your very home is falling apart.

See, the problem is, once we begin to see our exteriors as intertwined with our interior life, we can be left with a very important, and very long, to do list. Once you begin to see yourself as an integrated person, you may feel a great deal of judgement towards yourself. You might be left feeling as if you are not merely repairing a broken item, but your very brokenness. Suddenly, the worn off paint, the overflowing cutlery drawer, the messy vehicle interior begin to feel like character flaws. That there is something very wrong with you.

And if, (hypothetically speaking), you find the prospect of repairing that one acursed drawer again overwhelming, the prospect of attempting to repair and structure your interior life may just make you want to lay down in the fetal position. That to-do list is crushing. And you may not even know where to start.

So start, with both acceptance and gratitude.

We all arrive at this moment through different paths. Some of our interiors and exteriors are more cluttered than others. So be it. This is your home, your interior and exterior, and no one else’s. Accept that this home is yours, replete with all that a home comes with. Warm baths and leaking pipes. Delicious food around a table, and the dishes afterward. Desks on which to imagine and write, and cluttered notes and half finished thoughts. Projects completed and many projects yet to do.

Accept that a life’s work may just take a lifetime. It might be enough (for now) to see this. To look at ourselves soberly, but without too much judgement. Seeing is a gift, after all. Noticing that which we were too tired or overwhelmed to see before, is progress. To buy one more lamp, when you’ve smashed so many before, is courage.There is no easy fix for the way we are. But it is still good. We can desire change without hating who we are in this present moment.

So sweep away the new mess, clear off that table and counters once again. And break out the adhesives, and screws, and clamps, and attempt to fix that which is broken once more.

Clear those exteriors, and be kind to your interior life.

This is hard, good work, making a home.

Doing It Wrong

December 19, 2020 / matr / 2 Comments

It’s the 2020 Holiday Special Extravaganza! I promise this audio will be both more meaningful and (mercifully) shorter than most of the specials you’ve been subjected to…

I’ve been ~~starting fires~~ … er, lighting candles.

This year, I’ve been observing and celebrating the Advent season. Starting on the last Sunday in November, we’ve gathered our immediate family around a glass lantern, and lighting candles placed within it. By December 25th, we will have lit five candles, each candle representing a different theme.

Advent simply refers to the arrival of something prominent. In the wide Christian tradition that I am most familiar with, people have gathered together for generations to light candles, reflecting on the themes of hope, peace, love and joy. Within this tradition, many have developed a very specific way of observing this. Specialty advent candle holders, specific colors of candles, an order to the themes with accompanying readings and prayers.

Like many before me, this season’s Advent has become a special and sacred time to me.

Also, by all accounts, I’m doing it wrong.

We have no specialty advent holder. We even forgo the different colored candles (purple and pink don’t match the rest of our holiday decorations). Instead we place uncoloured beeswax candles into our lantern, and each Sunday, we complete a hurriedly internet search to ensure that we are focused on the correct theme.

While Advent is not a new tradition, it is new to me. For much of my life, Advent has been much more about chocolate calendars than Christ. Even now, I have a complicated relationship with faith. In a household that does not attend church services, reading from the Bible feels awkward and forced. But we take our place in the tradition anyway. We discuss each theme with a wide and generous description. When my son says that getting Taco Time on Tuesdays brings him joy, I don’t correct him (why would I? There are few things in life more joy-giving than tacos).

It took me a long time to take part in this tradition I’m uncertain I belong to. To light the wrong candles. To gather my family around and discuss themes with no wrong answers. To read passages that give me both joy and doubt. It took a long time to feel comfortable doing it wrong.

When it comes to the winter holiday season, there are a lot of expectations. If you belong to a religious tradition, you may feel required to observe: the lighting of advent candles, kinara, or menorah; the decorating of a ficus tree; and the attending of nativity plays or Christmas eve services. But even if you are not religious, this is a season loaded with traditions both personal and corporate: Christmas vacation (both the excursion and the movie!), baked goods, cookie exchanges, holiday staff parties, card and gift exchanges, pictures with Santa, family gatherings and huge, extravagant meals together.

This year, nearly every event I’ve just mentioned has had to be tailored, adjusted, or cancelled outright. When so many of our long held traditions are suddenly and unwantedly upended, we might feel like we are “doing it wrong”. We may even feel nostalgic for the events that we dreaded in years previous (here’s looking at you, spouses’ staff Christmas party…).

The winter traditions we celebrate have a power to ground and centre us. But like all traditions, they have a rhythm, a certain order, a correct way to observe them. If you always celebrate Christmas Eve in a church, or always join your extended family for turkey dinner on the 25th, this season is going to feel off. It’s going to feel less traditional. It’s going to feel like you’re doing it wrong.

But you can do it. Ask the person who works out of town. Ask the person who works at the restaurant open on Christmas day. Ask your local shift worker.

As a health professional working shift work, I’ve been ‘doing it wrong’ for years. Long before I lit my first advent candle. For more than 20 years, I’ve been a shift worker. That means I’ve repeatedly been an inconsistent plus one at my partner’s staff parties. My children often have only one parent cheering them on at elementary school Christmas concerts. I’ve left a seat empty at numerous family meals. I’ve woken my children up at 5am so I can hurriedly watch them open gifts before heading into work, or asked them to (impatiently) wait until 8am if I’m just finishing up a night shift.

And all those Christmases? All those modified holidays traditions? Still memorable, still meaningful.

These days, I’ve come to appreciate the grounding gift that tradition is. A rhythm that I can fall in step with. This candle, this theme, this reading.

But that gift given should not become a weighty, cumbersome thing. The winter traditions we have participated in are for our grounding, our belonging, our adoration and enjoyment. At times when these traditions have to be adjusted or abandoned all together, then we make peace with ‘doing it wrong’. We accept them for the gift they are. We take what works. We leave the rest.

And we acknowledge and allow our discomfort. Our longing for rhythm.

If you’re feeling like you’re missing out, that’s okay. If you feel exhausted doing half of what you normally do this time of year, that’s okay. If a season without seeing family and friends leaves mourning, that’s okay.

That’s okay, that’s okay, that’s okay. Repeat it as often as you need until it’s true. Permission slips, all around.

You can do it wrong, and still participate in a tradition.

You can do this wrong, and still enjoy it.

You can do this wrong, and still make it memorable and meaningful.

You can do this.

Of Parts and the Whole

December 10, 2020 / matr / 0 Comments

“He’s your friend… he’s your friend… he’s your friend”.

I repeat the phrase to myself like a mantra. Familiar words that have lost all meaning in the present moment. I’m trying to remember them.

It’s late at night, and I’m a few beers in, staring at my phone and the latest graphic my friend has uploaded to his social feed. Something about the ridiculousness of our latest restrictions, or how the virus has a stunningly low mortality rate. About how this is all blown out of proportion.

It’s the third post from him that evening to similar effect. He’s obviously on a tear. And I, like a moth to a flame, like a dog to vomit, keep returning. My hand hovers on the reply button. I’m just uninhibited enough to start a fight. Or rise to one.

My wife takes away my phone.

“You’re drunk. And he’s our friend”.

She’s right of course, on both counts.

The next day I return with clearer eyes, and my mood isn’t much better. In my absence, others (whose partners did not physically remove their phones) had responded to my friends’ assertions. A back and forth had developed, these stats versus those, this infringement of rights versus that benefit, all of it loaded, all of it tense.

It’s tense for me too. It’s personal. I’ve been witnessing increasing numbers of confirmed cases return to the hospital with shortness of breath. And I had just received an email from my child’s school informing me that a student there is infected. That was our first email, but for many of my friends, this has been occurring regularly. It’s become personal for all of us. The once distant threat is more real than ever. Here now, and revealing itself daily.

So too our anxiety and fear is showing itself daily. Each conversation stubbornly fixated upon this virus, the new governmental restrictions, or the uncertain near future. My online social feeds are shouting. Most of the shouting reinforces my echo chamber. Memes that show what an intubation procedure looks like, in case someone finds a cloth mask uncomfortable. Stories of those who have unexpectedly lost loved ones during this pandemic, and could not be at their beside. Doctors and nurses, pleading with their friends, families and communities to follow the precautions outlined or mandated for their safety.

But occasionally, a break in the echo chamber comes through. And in a world of shouted agreement, these posts are especially abrasive. Posts that imply that all my worry, caution, and potential danger to myself and my family is overblown.

I respond to my friend’s post. As rationally and empathetically as I am able in that moment. A back and forth of our own develops, but after multiple exchanges, we are no closer to agreement. Even with my best arguments, he’s not miraculously converted to my line of thinking.

(Makes you wonder the point of all this shouting and shaming, when we intuitively know it will not change minds and hearts).

I text my friend, “we should go for a walk”. My friend agrees. A little fresh air and sunlight could do us both a world of good.

I’m nervous before going on the walk, but we don’t immediately discuss our views on the virus or his recent posts. That’s not how real life works. It’s been a few months since we’ve seen each other face to face. We talk about our partners and children. We talk about our jobs. We talk about how we miss seeing groups of people. We talk about how it is heartbreaking to find a community to belong to, and suddenly be unable to meet face to face. We talked about how the use of sanitizer in schools causes both of our children to develop sores and inflammation on their hands. We talk about what fear does to a culture, how hard it is to connect with another when you are suspicious that they (or yourself), might have a deadly virus in tow. We talk about how keeping people at a physical distance creates a mental distance as well. We talk about how “hope deferred makes the heart sick”.

We find a great deal that we connect on. Eventually, we discuss his posts, our viewpoints on the virus and our responses to it. In talking with him, I am able to realize how raw and exposed I feel, how personally I took those posts. There is a lot that I disagree with. We come from incompatible starting points, and therefore expect wildly different outcomes. We both place reliance on data that we can not, individually, prove and authenticate. We differ greatly on who we trust and whose data we can rely upon.

We do not come to complete agreement. But the walk was never about that. The walk, I realize, has far less to do with convincing my friend that he is wrong than it does convincing myself that we are still good friends.

And we are still good friends. Because for a bright, sunlit December morning traipsing around the back hills of Mission Creek, I saw my whole friend.

Now, this is obvious, and you probably don’t need me reminding you, but what we see online of each other is not a full person. These are snapshots, curated by creator and platform alike, and removed from the context of real life.

Lots of people more intelligent and articulate than myself have explored this phenomenon. Long before we ever heard of Coronavirus or Covid-19, those who study human behavior have been raising the alarm that social media often creates unrealistic, false, and socially destructive images of each other. That it leaves us feeling more isolated and disconnected, not less.

And in our isolation right now, it can feel like all we have.

Compounding this, we are all desperately focused on a singular, complex and unfolding event. Our newsfeeds and socials are saturated with posts about a virus with unprecedented spread and death toll in our lifetime. We are reading about and discussing new vaccine technologies which the world has never seen. We are debating the credibility of data we have never before considered. We are posting our opinions on how we are collectively incurring deficits in the billions.

Some of us are acting as if we are covertly trained economists, politicians, epidemiologists, virologists, pharmacologists, or health officers. But even those of us who begrudgingly admit our ignorance in these matters are still ready and willing to shout our opinions on social media.

On my long walk with my friend it occurred to me that what we are currently discussing is no less than “life, liberty and the security of person”. The stakes are that high, for me, and for my friend, despite our very different take on this present moment. It is natural that we would all want a say in these matters, even when they are well out of our depth. This can be infuriating when we read opinions and conclusions that are contrary to our own, or discount our own first hand experience. But it is not unexpected.

So many of the critiques of policy I have come across highlight a perceived failure of balance. A focus on a particular part, at the expense of the whole: Small businessnesses that are shuttered while big box stores continue to operate, resulting in a future economy further monopolized by the biggest players; Restrictions and reductions on elective surgeries allow redeployment of resources, but come at the cost of personal pain and complications from the delay; A government offers emergency funds, but saddles billions of dollars of debt with our children and grandchildren (and so on).

“It’s difficult to convey the whole of a thing online. We don’t tend to I haven’t seen a whole lot of memes that convey the difficulty of balancing both life and liberty. The whole is less about shouting, more about dialogue. I can agree with these restrictions, and still be aware of the overall cost of them. In fact, I should. We should all be able to live with some complexity and nuance. The whole of a thing is always messy, complicated, and full of contradictions and compromises.

But so are we. And in a moment where we are only seeing a part of each other, it’s easy to mistake it for the whole. We are not our most recent Facebook post or Instagram story. Those that we have invited into our lives, we have invited for a reason. Their whole person is important to us, as we are to them.

Remembering a person’s wholeness does not mean that truth matters less, or that boundaries are not important. It is simply the refusal to reduce someone to their sharpest edges. It is the generous humility of remembering our common struggles. It is being gracious with another as to allow disagreement and complexity.

And humility, generosity and grace are exactly what we need right now.

A Hidden Grace

November 13, 2020 / matr / 2 Comments

It was dusk, and I had forgotten where I was.

Not literally, of course. I was on my way to pick up my son from school, and having passed through the low marshland I began to traipse up the hill approaching the back school yard. But my mind was elsewhere, distracted. Likely somewhere between the states of Arizona, Georgia and Pennsylvania.

It was November 5th, two days after the US election. And there was a lot in the air.

For days, I had been refreshing an electoral map that changed, state by state, by single digit percentages, if that. In between habitual refreshing of the map and news stories, I endlessly consumed the outrage, disgust, despair and then, fragile hope, on display in my social feeds.

Closer to home, viral cases had begun to jump exponentially. That morning a nearby elementary school had registered yet another outbreak. Collective thoughts were turning more frequently to the heightened regulations and restrictions that would surely soon be coming.

In response to both viral cases, and political upheaval, and tethered to my phone as I was, I began engaging in online arguments with both acquaintances and strangers. Tense conversations about the balance between civic responsibilities and freedoms, about disputed numbers and scientific models, about what constitutes safety and acceptable risk.

That evening as I trudged towards my son’s school, anxious thoughts of Trumpism and anti establishment skepticism blurred together, making the moment even more precarious in my mind. I shivered against the crisp evening air, and habitually I pulled out my phone and refreshed the election map, one last time.

And then suddenly, a great furor of noise encircled me.

Startled, I looked around, squinting and unable to find the source. My eyes were temporarily blinded by the glare of my phone’s screen as I stared into the near dark. And then it came into the view: against the backdrop of the fading sky, a great mass of red wing blackbirds moving as a single coordinated, unpredictable cloud. Slowly my eyes began to identify individual birds, circling and weaving between the cattails.

It suddenly occurred to me how silly it was that the birds had startled me. They were hardly quiet now, their chorus of chirps audible amongst the tumult of beating wings. Had they been silent and still as I had descended into their home? Or had I been sleep walking? So lost in thought that I had stumbled into another world without realizing it.

The phone slipped back into my pocket. And concerns of US elections and viral cases and online arguments were far away from me again. I stood on that hill, held by that moment. Still, staring, and listening. And realizing where I was.

A few weeks earlier I had decided to memorize Wendell Berry’s poem, “The Peace of Wild Things”. I was not feeling at all at peace, and It had been featured by the On Being Project, read by Berry himself. The poem is eleven lines long, and read slowly in less than a minute. From the moment that Berry intones his first words “When despair for the world grows in me…” I knew that the poem was for me, and many of us, in this moment.

In the poem, Berry conveys the unique peace that nature possesses and can lend us. In the night, when assaulted by anxious thoughts, the poet leaves his home and lies down in the grass, where the “wood drake rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds”. Amongst nature, the poet gains the “peace of wild things”, but only for a time. For in the end, the poet does not proclaim a final victory over despair or sleepless nights, but only that “for a while, I am held by the grace of the world, and am free”.

And there I was, suddenly free myself. Held, momentarily by the hidden grace of that moment, that I stumbled upon. Caught up in something that felt so strange and otherworldly. But of course, was very much a part of our world, occurring outside of my notice in the twilight of each and every evening.

Despite the fact that I no longer go to church, I found myself thinking of the words of Jacob in the book of Genesis. In that old tale, Jacob falls asleep in the wilderness at dark, and in his dream he sees a ladder extending up into heaven, and angels ascending and descending. And after he is blessed and reassured by God, he awakes. And Jacob marvels to himself: “Surely the LORD was in this place, and I did not realize it”.

This story is more than 3000 years old. And any story that old is loaded with meaning, importance and interpretations that others have placed upon it, long before it ever reaches our ears.

But that story has survived for a reason.

Now, you may not believe in God or angels (or ladders, I don’t know you…). But this was a story of a man finding himself face to face with a much larger reality than he realized. A place that was sacred and alive when he thought it was ordinary and desolate. A story where his world became much bigger, and his previous concerns much smaller. And one where he was still blessed and accepted. And as I stood there stunned and still and free, it felt like my story too.

On this we can agree: that there is a whole world, that we think of as ‘other’, below, above, and outside of our distracted attention. That beyond our notice is a world where redwing blackbirds, or heavenly messengers are ascending and descending. Where the voice of the Divine, or a chorus of chirps and beating wings can bless us and remind us that we belong.

And that belonging, is grace.

Sometimes, we think of grace as solutions to our problems. The things we fret about are resolved. There is political cooperation and coordination, where before there seemed only discord and chaos. A virus’ spread and cost is halted by reliable and rapid testing, and the distribution of an effective and safe vaccine. An online argument is resolved, as each participant thanks the other for bringing a new and thoughtful perspective.

But sometimes (and most often), grace comes as the simple dawning awareness that there is a world larger than our concerns. A world that does not need us, but welcomes our observance and participation. The moments where we realize this are sacred to us, because they are often hidden below our attention.

How often, in our forethought of grief do we walk right into and through, a world waiting to capture our attention. Waiting to lend us a moment’s peace. To cast our anxieties far from us. And to cast us in a production far bigger and wilder than ourselves.

A hidden grace, waiting to hold us and make us free.

If only just for a little while.

As If Your Feet Were Kissing The Earth

October 6, 2020 / matr / 4 Comments

Matt’s got a tragic hip at the moment… but nothing wrong with his voice box! Click away!

This morning, I’m in pain.

It’s not terrible at the moment, but it’s right there (there being an ever moving target along the nerve pathway of my right leg).

A few weeks ago a spasm of sharp, grabbing pain suddenly relocated from my lower back to my right hip, where it began sending unexpected pain shooting across my right buttock, groin, and down through the front of my right shin.

My sciatic nerve was not happy.

The pain came on suddenly, unexpectedly, and erratically. And it’s stayed with me since. Like an unwanted guest, far overstaying their welcome.

Since then I’ve tried a number of stretches, visited massage therapists, employed alternating hot and cold compresses to the muscles in question. The overall pain has diminished, but to this day, an overextending of my leg, an unexpected turn to the side, or a bend at the waist will create a spasm that takes my breath away (and usually has me making some involuntary sound that send my family running to see if I’m okay).

What does help, invariably, is walking.

Not at first, of course. At first, each step feels unnatural, pain flaring at a certain rotation, or as I first put my full weight down into my shoe. The first few steps are always limping, as one of my kids (or partner!) asks me if they should grab my cane or walker.

(Which is doubly insulting because they laugh at me AND they never hand me a cane or walker)

Eventually, after a few painful and stuttering steps, I begin to find a rhythm; one foot in front of the other, equal stride and weight placed as I move. But it’s always slow and careful. The spasms of pain remain inconsistent, so each movement is measured, intentional, and sensing. I walk slowly, aware that each movement may need to be modified mid stride. I am fully aware of each step. I am aware of each and every time my shoe touches the earth.

Today, after walking my youngest to the nearby elementary school, I veered off and walked along a path littered with overgrowth and uneven terrain. Each step came slowly, feeling the leaves, twigs, and small gravel give way under my foot. The sound of the dirt moving beneath my shoe as I shifted my weight. It reminded me of Buddist Zen Master, Thich Nat Hahn’s advice: “Walk as if you were kissing the earth with your feet”.

Those words from the Buddist monk have often been in my head when I am walking. Not that I’m especially practiced at it. Those who have gone on retreats with the master relate that they spend hours or days in silence, simply walking, simply attempting to apply this rule to each step.

But now, in my pain, I can understand it more than ever before. Before, even as I attempted to be mindful of each step, my pace would slow only as long as I focused my attention on it. As soon as the master’s words slipped away from the forefront of my mind, I would unconsciously return to my brisk, utilitarian stride. A quick stride is useful in a lot of our day to day activities, but “brisk” and “utilitarian” are not the adjectives you want associated with kissing. But now, in my injury, each step is measured, gentle, aware of its weight and force. Each foot touches the earth with a tenderness and a reaching curiosity usually reserved for only the most intimate of touches.

“Kissing the earth with your feet” sounds superfluous, an attempt to spiritualize the most mundane of actions, simply putting one foot in front of the other. And of course, it is. That is the great challenge hidden within even the simplest of tasks. That each action could be undertaken with our whole being, if we had the intention and mindfulness for it.

And nothing brings mindfulness to the present moment like pain.

Pain is the message delivered in ALL CAPS. Pain reminds us exactly where we are. Exactly what we are doing. It has been incredibly hard to become lost in thought these days. Each time I sit my right hip muscles call out to me: “WE ARE HERE! WE DON”T LIKE THIS POSITION!”. Each time I stand, or step forward, those same muscles and nerve endings scream to me, ““YOU ARE HERE! IN YOUR WOUNDED BODY! MOVE SLOWLY!”.

And yet, my immediate response to pain is always the desire to escape it. When I’m in pain, I want to be in any moment by the present. I don’t want to hear what my body is saying to me right now. I want to reach for something on the ground without paying the price for imperfect posture. I want to escape from my painful body with a podcast, a show or a videogame. I want to numb those same nerve endings with medications or alcohol. The pain makes me want to ignore, escape, or numb exactly what it is trying to tell me.

But despite these desires, the only healing I have found is slowly and tenderly moving through the pain.

So, how are you responding to pain?

You don’t have to be in physical pain, of course. The pain doesn’t even have to be yours, personally. Because there is pain all around us.

This is true in years not marked by pandemics, economic and political uncertainty, and isolation, but it’s unquestionably true now. And as with all forms of pain, some will attempt to ignore it, some will seek to escape it, and some will attempt to numb it.

And I don’t know a single one of us who have not utilized these tactics to gain a small reprieve in these past few months. I certainly have. But it doesn’t move us forward. And it doesn’t bring us healing.

Even in the tumultuous year that 2020 has been, life is far too short and precious to be ignored, numbed or distracted from. We need to be able to move forward in full acceptance of the pain that we are experiencing and surrounded by. But that movement must be slow, careful and mindful.

And when we move through this pain, it might look like we are limping (because we are), and it might look painful (because it is). But we will not miss the next days, months, or years in numbness, denial or distraction.

And maybe, even as the pain eventually subsides, we will have learned to move as ones who are slow, mindful, and tender.

We would be those who walk, as if our feet were kissing the earth.

The Great Squeeze

September 15, 2020 / matr / 4 Comments

Click away, and Matt will tell you a tale of anger, masks, grocery shopping… and grace, too.

I recently encountered a very angry man.

That isn’t particularly novel these days. There are angry men (and women) everywhere. This particular man was at the grocery store. He was tall, well built, middle aged, and dressed casually. And as I steered my cart towards the produce section, the man abruptly stepped in front of me and yelled out: “THERE’S NO PANDEMIC! IT’S ALL B.S.!”

(But, he did not say “B.S.”).

I was wearing a simple cloth mask that day, as I do whenever I am indoors in public. And this too was not novel. Many of us are wearing masks indoors, with a great number of stores advising or mandating it. And while the cloth mask offers some protection for the wearer, most understand that it is primarily a safeguard for others. A barrier to prevent us from unwittingly (and moistly!) breathing viral particles on grocery clerks and fellow shoppers alike when we come in close contact with them (as when someone unexpectedly pulls in front of you with their grocery cart).

Regardless of its simple or common appearance, my face covering seemed to incense the man.

Stunned by our initial encounter, I watched the man as he shopped. Everything about him appeared agitated, almost comically so. Items were thrown, rather than placed into his cart. He moved hurriedly and impatiently around the other shoppers. When we both arrived back at the checkout line, I watched him swear loudly at the wait, and then abandon his line for the self checkout. The man swiped his entire cart’s worth across the small scanner, breathing hard and sighing aloud each time an item required a cashier’s assistance. Incredibly, the man had chosen not to purchase any bags and instead attempted to pile his full grocery cart’s worth on the small scale beside the scanner, so that items were continuingly falling to the floor. And then, because truth is stranger than fiction, the scanner malfunctioned, and the man was forced to wait as the (unfortunate) grocery clerk assisted him to re-ring in his entire order.

And then, with the eyes of every patron and employee of the store on him, he disappeared. And we all breathed a sigh of relief. I had been watching the man with great interest, but also wariness. Being near him felt like being near a dog who faintly curls his upper lip in a snarl, exposing his teeth.

This was an angry man. But he was not the only one. I was angry, too.

From the moment he yelled out, I was angry. Annoyed at his brazen ignorance. Resentful of the space he occupied around him, how he demanded that every other shopper be wary of him. He was the second stranger in less than a week who had derided me for wearing a mask indoors, and I was furious that a piece of cloth has become so divisive. Angry that we are still here, still arguing the legitimacy of a pandemic that changed our world completely, which has injured and killed hundreds of thousands (yes, even if they had pre existing conditions…).

But I was also angry before I met this man. For months now I have noticed a low grade irritability within me. An agitation stirring just below the surface. A readiness to be annoyed or incensed. As if I am constantly and consistently being squeezed, just a little tighter than the moment before. It shows itself as a little less grace for those who frustrate me. Even the occasional outburst at those whom I feel safest with and love the most.

If you had asked me why I have been feeling so agitated and irritable, so prone to outbursts, I don’t think I could have told you a specific reason. And had someone asked the tall angry man in the grocery store why he was so irate, he might not be able to articulate what he was so angry at either.

That is how anger works. Anger is like a fire. It builds until it ignites, and as it grows it becomes harder to contain, searching wildly for any fuel that will sustain it. The flashpoint may be specific, but the fuel is not. And in this moment, with so much that feels uncertain and beyond our control, there is fuel everywhere.

There is so much I don’t know about the tall man at the grocery store. But this much I do know: long before he stepped into that store and saw my mask, he had been squeezed by the same factors we all are. Whatever fears we harbour, whatever anxieties we carry, and whatever agitation and anger we bear are amplified in this moment.

That does not excuse poor behavior, of course. Empathy and understanding is not synonymous with acceptance. Swearing at strangers in public is not a defensible behavior from a grown man. He should know and act better. Likewise, when I find myself irritable and yelling at my own family for reasons I cannot pinpoint, I should know and act better, too. Each of us is responsible for our actions, and our reactions, regardless of the stress we currently find ourselves in.

And our stress will increase. As tested and stretched and squeezed as everyone has already felt amidst this pandemic, the coming fall and winter seasons will feel tighter.

There are many things we can expect to squeeze us. Viral cases will continue to rise. Face to face visits will decrease as smoke and colder weather decreases our ability to gather outside. Financial hardships will increase as many businesses struggle to stay afloat in a limping economy. Repeatedly we (and others) will have to decide between safety and liberty. We can expect to know someone who is infected. We can expect outbreaks in our workplaces and schools. We can expect our children to be sent home from school or daycare for weeks at a time with sniffling noses and coughs that have nothing to do with Covid; and we can expect to worry for them as we await intrusive test results.

And we can expect to feel it all. We can expect to feel apprehensive, anxious, frustrated and angry. We can expect to see other’s feeling the same. Sometimes all in the same day. Sometimes all within the same grocery store trip.

If this sounds like fear mongering, I promise you it is not. This is mental preparation, and preparation is a gift to the aware and the alert. If we knew that the temperature was dropping, we would bring out warmer clothes. If we knew there was a famine coming, we would store up food. And the one thing we know there will be a shortage of in the days to come, is grace.

So let’s stock up now. Let’s decide to be gracious, now. Even if we do not know the specific ways the months ahead will stress us, we can all expect to be squeezed. It would be dangerous to blindly deny all the turmoil we carry within us, and stresses that the upcoming days may bring us. And it is too much for us to expect that we will never be anxious, irritable or angry. So instead, let us be gracious, both with ourselves and others.

Gracious with our stressed out spouses and children. Gracious with our public health officers. Gracious with our children’s teachers. Gracious with those working in our hospitals. Gracious with those grocery clerks assisting us through malfunctioning self checkout scanners. Gracious with even those who are angry and at their worst. And perhaps they will return grace to us, when we need it most.

And if that sounds a little like how masks are supposed to work… well, it’s not a coincidence.

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