Tag Archives: memories

When the street lights came on

How many of us Gen X kids stayed out until the street lights came on? That was the signal to head hone for bed. Until the street lights came on, all your parents knew about your location was that you were somewhere in the neighbourhood…. somewhere.

Kids today, their parents always know where they are. This isn’t that new. Even us X’ers didn’t let our kids have this freedom. We grew up in an era when news reports started telling us what a bad world we live in. Unsafe. Dangerous for kids.

Now we are locked down in a way that really limits kids freedoms even more. Where are you going? Who are you seeing? Are they all in your small bubble of friends? Coronavirus has locked us all down and limited where we go and who we see.

This is really tough for kids. They don’t have any equivalent experience of being out until the street lights turn on. They don’t have a place to be unsupervised by adults… not to raise hell and cause trouble, just to be kids.

How much of their time is organized. Even fun is organized… soccer practice, dance classes, music lessons, are all put in the calendar. Play is scheduled, like recess and lunch at school, every free moment isn’t really free at all.

I think we need to find ways to give kids some of the freedom we had as kids, when we could stay out, unsupervised, until the street lights came on.

Documenting your life

It occurred to me last night that a daily blog is an interesting way to document your life. It’s not a true journal, like a diary, because there are things I won’t share because it’s public… However it is a document of my thoughts and it opens a door into the things I think about.

I’m basically at a point now where I look back at old posts and some I remember writing and some I don’t. The blog is documenting thoughts I don’t even remember having. Have you ever looked back at a piece of writing and not remembered writing it? It’s kind of a weird feeling.

Kids today are doing this in different ways. They are sharing videos on TikTok, photos on Instagram, and even memories on Snapchat. Yes, even on Snapchat, the app where everything disappears, there is an option to save your video and Snapchat will share your ‘memories’ with you each year, like us old folk see on Facebook.

We are documenting our lives in digital, social spaces. Some of these spaces will disappear over time, and we will lose a piece of our histories. I no longer have my Ning and my Wikispaces memories archived, I can’t even remember some of the names of the apps that I stored memories on, that no longer exist.

But some will survive, some will get archived. While a paper journal can disappear, digital footprints might stick around for a very long time.

Our big ‘neighbor’

I remember driving through Indiana and meeting a couple older teenagers at a motel pool where we stopped for the night. It was the early ’90’s and these kids knew very little about Canada. They asked if I knew of Larry Bird and the NBA? They asked if we used the same currency? And they asked what the big mall was like? After a couple questions, I realized they meant West Edmonton Mall, and living in Toronto at the time I said, “You tell me, you live closer to it.”

That wasn’t a fair response, but I was growing weary of questions like this. As a Canadian on my travels through the States, I’ve been asked about hunting moose, dog sleds, igloos, and one of my favourites, if Canada was an American State?

I don’t pretend to know a lot about America, especially their history, but Canadians have an unfair advantage over Americans when it comes to knowing about each other’s countries. We see their news, they don’t see ours. We watch their television and movies. We follow their social media and business icons. We eat a lot of food produced in the US, and eat at restaurant chains that are American owned.

Canadians know we are significantly different than Americans. I’m not sure (beyond cliches) that the same can be said in reverse. It matters more to us when we rely so much on the US. And, if you look at a population map, the vast majority of Canadians live relatively close to our border, and that is not true for Americans.

Americans can live their lives not knowing anything about Canada. We don’t have the reverse option. Our election will be a ‘blip’ of news ‘down south’, theirs have and will continue to flood our media sources. Tariffs disputes affect individual companies in the US while they affect entire communities and Provinces in Canada. We will watch their blockbuster movies, and while some of them are filmed in Canada, they will be American films that Canadians might know were filmed here, but most Americans won’t.

We have a very large and powerful neighbour to our south, and we can’t ignore the influence they have on us. It will be interesting to see how this plays out in the next 5-10 years. The closed border, the discrepancy between our two countries in Covid-19 cases, their leadership, and the impression the US has on the world stage, has all changed the way the US is viewed in Canada.

The little brother or sister eventually stops looking at his bigger brother or sister with admiration and awe. I think we are seeing a similar relationship transition between Canada and the US. I just hope these two siblings remember that we are all part of a North American family and keep trying to play nicely together.

Covid dreams

I woke up this morning from a dream in which the entire focus was on getting the proper face protection to do the task I wanted to do. I can’t remember the task, only the concern for not being safe.

I often have dreams where the preparation for the task takes over the dream. This goes all the way back to being a pizza delivery driver in university. I’d dream of getting in my car to go to work and my car would only go in reverse. The whole dream would be about trying to get to work driving backwards.

Obviously these are stressful dreams. I can control stress in my waking life, can’t do it in my sleep. It’s not surprising that months into this pandemic, I’d have dreams related to the challenges we face. Going back to work last week has added to this.

Dealing with Covid-19 isn’t something normal. It’s a unique challenge that adds stress to our daily experience. Being around other people used to be easier. Understanding how to give others their personal space used to be easier. Supporting one another used to be easier.

Stress responses are not designed to be triggered again and again over long periods of time. While I was bent on the idea that this isn’t the ‘new normal’ and we need to remember that things will get better… the timeline for change is too long to not call this normal. We need to normalize mask wearing, social distancing, covering up coughs and sneezes, and staying home when we don’t feel well. We need to make this normal enough that it isn’t a stress, but just what we do.

I look forward to dreams where I’m wearing a mask, but the concern of it isn’t the focus of the dream.

Bajan Sun

I grew up in Barbados and loved spending time in the sun. Summers would be spent at the beach, arriving on the sand after breakfast, and often staying until late afternoon. The beach was only a 5 minute walk from our apartment on the second level of a two-story quadplex, and sometimes we’d walk home for lunch, but usually we’d bring a lunch or buy something on the beach.

I’d get so dark that my bathing suit tan line looked like it divided two completely different people. The amazing thing is, I never used sun tan lotion. That was stuff the tourists used. And we saw a lot of burned tourists.

My grandparents lived in a big house on our street and they owned a motel at the end of the street, about 25 meters from our apartment. I can remember my granny’s institutions to newcomers, in her Bajan accent.

“Listen ta me. I got two important things ta tell you. First, don’ go in the sun between 10 and 2 for your first few days… and watch out for the Bajan rum!”

Like clockwork there would be a couple that ignored her warning about every 2-3 weeks. It usually went like this: The first night I’d be woken up late by a taxi dropping a couple off. The husband would be slurring and generally being an ass, drunk on our strong rum. And his apologetic wife would be unsuccessfully trying to corral him into their room while trying to keep him quiet and not wake anyone up. Or they’d both be drunk and making a ruckus.

Next, I’d see them visiting my grandparents the following evening, either just the husband or both of them, red as lobsters, arms outstretched, and asking what to do about the sunburn pain? Basically, being hung over, they would decide to just go to the beach, ignore my granny’s advice and sleep in the sun during that blazing hot time between 10am and 2pm. My granny’s advice was always the same: vinegar. Keep it in the fridge, put it on a soft cloth and dab the burn. She used to give the vinegar out for free, or at least with the cost of an ‘I told you so’ lecture.

I can no longer sit in the sun for endless hours without sun tan lotion. I don’t know if it’s a difference in the sun or my soft Canadian skin, but I can’t handle the sun like I did as a kid. I hate suntan location though, to me it feels like a film of dirt being added to my skin. So I still don’t use it much. Instead of using it, when I go to the beach, I sit in the morning sun, enjoy the feel of soaking in some natural vitamin D, then seek shade after that. I listen to my body and it tells me when I’ve had enough. Sometimes the sun is unavoidable beyond that and yes, on those days I still use sun tan lotion, but mostly I am just cautious about how much sun I get. I still tan well, but it has been decades since I’ve had that stark tan line just above my bathing suit.

Growing up on an island I saw many raw, burned tourists. I saw t-shirt lines so dark, I thought their white bodies were shirts with chest hair. I saw skin peeling off their arms and backs. I saw Santa coloured cheeks, and Rudolph coloured noses during every month of the year. And I heard my granny’s warning over and over again to newcomers, to watch out for the Bajan sun and rum!

Coffee after class

It was second semester of my first year at the University of Guelph. I had a night class on Wednesday’s from 6-9pm. Now, decades later, I have no idea what the class was about, yet taking that class had a profound impact on my thinking.

Another student taking the class with me was Brian, an older, round-faced, bearded gentleman in his mid 30’s whom I knew from a class the previous semester. We sat near each other in the first class and afterwards he asked me, and one other student that I didn’t know, James, if we wanted to go for a coffee. James, was a moustache-less but goateed, hip-looking young man who was probably no more than a year older than me, but he made me look young next to him. He said he was meeting his girlfriend, and could she join us?

Upon leaving the the class, James’ girlfriend, Lara, approached us and he introduced us. Lara was just as hip looking as James. She had short-cropped hair with coloured highlights, and a nose ring. Or maybe it was James that had the nose ring, my memory is a little hazy, this was 32 years ago. (I’m not even 100% sure I have the names right, but these will do,)

And so it began, 10 weeks of the four of us meeting for coffee, creating some unforgettable memories after sitting through a class that was completely forgettable. While we talked about life, the universe, and everything, the conversation always seemed to gravitate to religion.

To give a little personal background, I grew up in a Jewish family, but we were not religious and my dad’s views were both secular and esoteric. What little faith I had was rocked by Charlton Heston in the Ten Commandments. I saw this movie shortly after moving to Canada, not yet a teenager.

The part of the movie that most impacted me was the scene that sets the stage for Passover, the only Jewish celebration we did with our grandparents.

To borrow from Wikipedia on Passover:

In the Book of Exodus, God helped the Israelites escape from slavery in ancient Egypt by inflicting ten plagues upon the Egyptians before the Pharaoh would release the Israelite slaves. The last of the plagues was the death of the Egyptian first-born. The Israelites were instructed to mark the doorposts of their homes with the blood of a slaughtered spring lamb. Upon seeing this, the spirit of the Lord knew to pass over the first-born in these homes, hence the English name of the holiday.

In the movie, a fog passes through the city bringing the plague that would kill the first born of the Egyptians and non-believers. You could hear the screams of Egyptian parents as their oldest children died.

Even at this young age, I remember thinking of this from the perspective of an Egyptian parent; A parent that did not wrong anyone, a parent who led a good life, in a loving family. I remember thinking, “What kind of cruel God would do this?” I could understand a God punishing the slave owners, but this was too much. It was vindictive, it was indiscriminate, and it was cruel. I thought, “I can not believe in such a vengeful God”.

The other three that met for coffee after class came from completely different religious standpoints. James was atheist. He had a Christian background, but his stance on religion was as indiscriminately hatefully as the Passover plague was to the Egyptians. Lara was Catholic, and while not fully devout, she held Christian values and principles. Her resolve in believing in God was as strong as her boyfriend’s atheism. Brian was… different.

Like the other three of us, this was Brian’s first year at university, despite being close to double our age. He joined the conversation not just with almost a lifetime’s more of life experience, but with life experiences that were rather unique. He was well travelled, articulate, and wise, but it was his unique religious background that made him quite an anomaly. Brian has been a “Hare Krishna devotee for 14 and a half years”. Looking back, it seems odd that he described his time with them that way. Why mention the 1/2 year?

Early on he was defensive about his time with this group. “People say that the Hare Krishnas drug their devotees… well I was head chef of our group for 9 years and I can tell you that not only are there no drugs, but they ate extremely healthy meals all the time.” As the weeks passed, he began to realize that we were just curious and not being judgemental when asking about his experiences in this faith. He shared a lot about them, but would never divulge what it was that made him leave.

Our conversations would routinely last until the coffee shop closed at 11. Sometimes we would stand outside for another 15-20 minutes conversing before we found a good place to stop. I remember a night where ‘James the Atheist’ became ‘James the Agnostic’. A week later, he was atheist again. I remember a ‘ladder and pyramid’ analogy for religions that Brian shared, that still influences my thoughts on religion today.

I remember having my thoughts and perspectives completely flipped, and also watching as my words would do the same to others. We used the Socratic method of asking questions to stimulate both argument and agreement. We got loud, but never angry. We learned from each other and honed our abilities to argue for the sake of good discourse.

I don’t remember seeing James or Lara after that. Brian didn’t come back to Guelph the next year. He went to India and was doing some charity work. I know this because he wrote a letter to update me. I have that letter in a box somewhere in my garage. I don’t remember any of the contents of the letter now, but I kept it because it was insightful, just like our conversations were.

If it was an era of smartphones and Facebook, I’m sure I would have kept in touch with Brian. He brought the four of us together. We taught each other. We challenged each other. We had one of the best ‘classes’ that I had at university. Four friends in a coffee shop.

Milestones disrupted

There are many families trying to create prom and grad experiences for their graduating kids. There are photo shoots happening in back yards and parks, minus the limos and groups of friends congregating at fancy halls and decorated school gyms.

I’m the parent of a Grade 12 student. Tonight was supposed to be opening night of her school play. She was to be Morticia in The Addams Family. We’re ordering in and having a family game night.

I don’t remember crossing the stage for my Grade 12 grad. I remember that I had an operation to fix my broken nose around that time, but I don’t remember missing my convocation for this, I don’t remember anything about it at all. Strange. I remember my grad dinner/dance. It was a fun night, but it isn’t something I cherish.

But my last water polo game I’d ever play in high school wasn’t cancelled. I wasn’t in band, choir, or musical theatre, and I didn’t miss my last performance. I got to walk the halls on the last days of school with my yearbook, getting it signed by friends and acquaintances.

It won’t necessarily be an easy end of the year for our high school grads. No matter how graduation is celebrated, it won’t be what was expected, what was being looked forward to. It’s up to the adults to step up and make it special. Plans might be disrupted, but we can still make events positively memorable.

In the shadows

I had a conversation yesterday with someone who carries very strong negative memories with them from something that happened many years ago. It wasn’t violent, and didn’t cause any trauma to their body, but it did to their mind. It was essentially an emotional bullying issue, one that especially hurt because it came from someone believed to be a friend. It hurt more because it wasn’t just a one-time thing, it was repeated.

As I listened, I was taken back by the hurt that was still carried. They say ‘time heals all wounds’, but I think sometimes ‘time wounds all heals’. Sometimes the passage of time does not separate us from emotional pain, rather time bathes us in it.

I think that’s why people end up self medicating. It’s easier to numb the pain than it is to face the pain that lurks in our memories, haunting us. The memory, the upset, the anger, or the pain, can seem as present and as relevant as things happening to us daily.

I’m not a psychologist, and I don’t play one on tv or the internet, but I asked this person a question.

I asked, when recalling the incidents, if they saw the experience through their own eyes or if they saw themselves in the memory as if they were watching a movie? The answer was ‘it’s like a movie’.

Aren’t our minds amazing things, that we can recall a memory and see ourselves in that memory! How does that work? We aren’t really reliving it if we can see it happening to us. It’s more like we are watching our own history. This gives us more power than we might think we have:

  • We don’t have to review our memories up close.
  • We don’t have to recall our memories in full colour or at full speed.
  • We can create new endings. Rewind and replay it.
  • We can literally put the memory into a television screen.
  • We can recall memories as still, black & white, blurry photos in old frames.

We can move memories into the shadows of our minds rather than have them fill our brains in full technicolor and splendour. We don’t have to get rid of them, (I’m not sure we can), but we can reduce their power over us. We can relegate the memories to less significance.

It’s similar to controlling anger. When something upsets us and makes us mad, how long do we hold on to that anger?

Let’s say you are driving to work one morning and someone cuts you off. I mean really cuts you off, you have to break hard and swerve into the curb lane to stop from hitting them and getting in an accident. You slam on the breaks and your horn simultaneously, but the other car drives off, seemingly oblivious to what they just put you through. How long do you hold on to that anger?

Is 5 minutes appropriate?

What about for the rest of your commute?

What about until everyone at work has heard your story?

How about until you’ve told your spouse when you got home.

How about the following week?

How about you recall the incident every time you pass that spot on the road on the way to work?

How long is it acceptable to hold on to that anger, to build up that moment in your mind? How long do you let that that angry moment in the past control your emotions in the present?

We have many memories that belong in the shadows of our mind, rather than in full colour and right in front of us.

If we can learn to not let the anger of a jerk that cut us off minutes, hours, days, or weeks ago control our present state or well being, couldn’t we do the same for something years in the past.

Maybe we can let time heal our wounds .

It may take practice, but if we’ve already changed the memory into a movie, seeing it from a perspective that we didn’t experience, then haven’t we already made changes that have removed us from the original experience? And if our minds can do that on their own, maybe we can choose to ‘see’ those memories in more distant and less angry ways. Maybe we can alter our past so that it interferes less with our present.

The memories that make us who we are

What are the defining moments in your life? When asked a question like this, we often think of big choices, like choosing a university, a life partner, a house, or a country to live in. But what about the little moments?

  • Parents who hugged you when you fell and cut your knee.
  • Being read a bed time story.
  • Family vacations.
  • Visits to or from grandparents.
  • Sports teams.
  • Sleepovers.
  • Trips abroad.
  • Boyfriends or girlfriends.
  • Parties, camping trips, hanging out in basements, dances, night clubs, and concerts.

If you are lucky, each of these examples will bring fond memories, and smiles. For others, one or more of these could trigger a memory of abuse or neglect or of missing out. For some, the memories are mixed, a blend of joyous nostalgia and bitter reflection.

These memories accumulate and our choice to focus on them help define who we are now, and what choices we make in the future. We might like to think that today is a new day filled with potential, but that potential is determined by our past, and the patterns we have set for ourselves. If these memories and patterns didn’t matter, we wouldn’t need so many self-help books, and therapists, and seminars that are available to help us break the cycles we get stuck in.

Wouldn’t it be great if we could alter our past to help us better align with the future we want? Could we look back at past memories and make the painful ones more distant? Could we find the hidden lessons we need now and see the value from the hardships we faced? Could we alter our histories by deciding to focus on what has made us stronger, wiser, and more resilient?

Do we own our memories or do they own us? If this is a choice we can make, what’s stopping us? Do we not have the power to make the memories that make us who we are?

Advice to a younger me

My youngest daughter turns 18 today. She graduates high school in June.

I’m writing this in the same living room my wife and I sat in before taking her to the hospital for my daughters delivery. The same living where that happened for my older daughter who is now 20. The furniture has changed, our cars have changed, my hairline has changed. Our kids have grown up. I feel relatively the same.

Sure my aches and pains take longer to heal. I have memories that have faded. I see lines in my face that were not there before. I seem to have lost certain memories. But I feel the same. I feel like less time has passed. I feel like two decades have raced by.

Have you ever wondered, if you could go back in time and tell yourself something, what would you say? What would you say to the younger version of you?

I’d say, “Commit both time and attention to things at the same time.”

That’s all. I wouldn’t want to say anything else other than ‘be more present’. Of course this is advice I could and should take now. After all, if the last two decades blinked by, that’s a pretty strong suggestion that the next two might go just as quick, or faster.