Just say'in ...

There are people who love to hate Toronto. I meet them all the time; they are always quick to express their litany of dislike. They slam the traffic, the drivers, the crowds, the noise, the pace of life, the crime, the smog, the people, the hockey (okay that’s legit), pretty much everything. Once satisfied they’ve made their, more often than not, unsolicited evaluation they then wax eloquent on their corner of the country. It’s beautiful, it’s quiet, it’s safe, it’s relaxing, the people are friendly, there’s no traffic, and everything is amazing.  And I’m sure it is, in fact I know it is. I’ve lived, visited or travelled throughout this incredible country. I’ve found beauty everywhere and I’ve meet lots of wonderful people. I’ve lived in rural settings, small towns, medium sized cities and large cities; downtown, uptown, suburbia, and in the middle of nowhere; been there, done that.

Now everyone is entitled to their opinion, apparently. Regardless of how ill informed, insensitive, stupid or narrow minded. That’s the beauty of free speech. You get to say pretty much anything. Not that I’m saying that those who express their dislike for the world’s most ethnically and racially diverse city, are ill informed, insensitive, stupid or narrow minded. That would be presumptuous, unfair, untrue and possibly elitist. But I will say this; I don’t come into your city, your neighbourhood or your home and tell you, unsolicited, that your city looks shabby, that your neighbourhood is sterile and boring, and that your house smells like wet dog. In fact even if you asked me I wouldn’t tell you that … because, well it’s just plain rude.

Toronto is all the bad things haters say it is … but it’s also much more. Toronto is a city of ravines and trees, of diverse neighborhoods, restaurants and theatres, art and life, blue-flag beaches, boardwalks and history. Its streets are filled with people from every corner of the world, good and decent people. It’s a city worth knowing, try it, get out of the car, walk the streets, stroll the parks and ravines, eat in the restaurants, visit the galleries, swim in the lake, sit on the beach, watch the people, go to the theatre … after all … it’s your city too.

Of course if you don’t want to experience the city, no problem. But could you manage to do one small thing for me? Be a nice polite guest and try not to blurt out that my house smells like a wet dog … I already know … but it’s my dog and I love her.

New beginnings ...

This past weekend I attended my ex-wife's wedding. It was a lovely ceremony, held in an intimate and charming venue. She was a dazzling bride; her dress was striking and her smile radiant. Our beautiful daughter was one of her bridesmaids and our handsome son stood alongside his new step dad and brothers. The room was filled with family and friends, a number of whom I hadn't seen since we separated a dozen years ago. A dozen years; a lot happens in a decade plus. We went from an estranged couple to friends and partners in the raising of our children. Mind you it was my former bride who took the brunt of that chore. Separated not only legally we were separated by distance, my part challenged by that space and time. But we did the best we could do, we tried and I think succeeded, to put our children first. Of course it couldn’t have happened if we didn’t let some things go. My everlasting gratitude to my former sweetie for forgiving me for the disappointment I caused her so many years ago.

It wasn’t always easy for either of us to get to this point, but we did it and because we did it, our children know they are loved. They know that they will never need to navigate some hopeless and unbridgeable gulf between the two people who brought them into this world. For them it’s one less challenge on the emotional journey we all make through life. Hopefully they will also see that it’s possible to fail with grace, and that failing is just another step towards a different than imagined success. That love has many ways to be expressed and once expressed should always be respected, but more crucially, that we are never more important than those whom we create in love.

Coffee shop ...

He's reading his book out loud, quietly, a murmur really. His voice is soft and measured. He's seated, hands clasped, his body leaning and hunched over his book which sits open in front of him on a small table. He's sitting in one of those comfortable chairs of which there are always too few in coffee shops. Every now and then he sits back and seems to consider the passages he's just completed, speaking now to the book instead of from it. I imagine he's challenging it or asking it for clarification as if he's in a two way conversation with a pupil. I say pupil because I associate him with my notion of a university professor. He's older, perhaps in his sixties with a full head of curly greying hair, a bushy, equally greying mustache and simple framed glasses perched on his nose. He has a note pad unopened on the table and an uneaten croissant, which I assume he has purchased as the price of admission. He's dressed casually in jeans and a clean pressed shirt; all of these details seem to reassure me that he's only eccentric instead of, well, crazy.

We all have expectations of how others should behave. We have all learned over time how we should look, how we should act and speak, or not, in certain public spaces. When we do present differently we can evoke equally predictable behaviors from our fellow spinning rock passengers.  Depending on the space, those reactions can range from bemused looks to open hostility. In my case I created this non-threatening story of an introverted mind grappling with a piece of important literature, a Woody-Allen caricature, that allows me to safely go back to my own book and read it like my mother taught me; in my head.  

But, primed I suppose by what I’ve been watching and listening, I begin to want mimic the professor, to hear out loud the words I’m reading ... but leery of escalating this affair into some type of coffee shop read off that ends with tomorrow’s headlines screaming “Professor Blasts Perspicuous Blogger”, I compromise and in lieu simply move my lips to the cadence of the little voice in my head.  

So here we are the professor reading out loud and me moving my lips. Out of the corner of my eye I catch a woman looking up from her newspaper, her slightly furrowed brow signalling her silent judgement, and then ever so slightly shaking her head she returns to her paper, leaving the two crazies to their strange little worlds.

Now seems real ...

Every day I wake up thankful ... I know it sounds a bit holy-roller; I promise I will not break into a puesdo-religious rant. It's just that at this point in my life, living in the moment seems the best strategy going forward. I have had my fill of wishing and wanting both forward and backward. I have found that mostly this just distracts from right now, so I guess I've come to the realization that I really can't change what has happened and that I have no clue nor real control over what will happen tomorrow or ten minutes from now for that matter. All I have, all anyone ever has, is what is happening right now. So rather than waste my time on what I can't change or what hasn't happened I'm good with just this very minute ... now I can still make plans and I can think about what has already passed to find insight for how to deal with the right now ... but really plans can change in a heart beat and yesterday ... well, that was yesterday. Live now.