“Nobody wants to talk about the weather,” declares a flashing blurb for a TED talk online. I love TED talks or at least some of the less technical talks (which do not include the words mathematics, satellites, or brain tissue). If you do not know what a TED talk is, here is a definition from WhatIs.com derived from the TEDx website: “A TED talk is a video created from a presentation at the main TED (technology, entertainment, design) conference or one of its many satellite events around the world.” The first TED talk was held in 1984 and it became an annual event in 1990. I discovered TED a couple of years ago. No one can ever fault me for being on the cutting edge.
TED talks usually range from about two minutes to twenty and can be on any topic under the sun (or moon depending on the time of day you tune in). How are the talks selected? According to WhatIs.com, “TED looks for engaging, charismatic speakers whose talks expose new ideas that are supported by concrete evidence and are relevant to a broad, international audience.” Some of the talks have included such diverse topics as the anatomy of a New Yorker cartoon, why we should build wooden skyscrapers, and why we sleep.
The talks that I find most fascinating usually deal with the human psyche in all its convoluted glory and the quirks of the human condition. But I must admit I have never run across a TED talk that dwells on the mundane everyday event of the weather. Sure, hurricanes and tornadoes and floods are great food for talk, but never the everyday weather that affects our everyday routines.
I think the assessment that people do not really want to talk about the weather is wrong. Asserting that “nobody really wants to talk about the weather” is meant to draw us in to talks that are deemed more interesting—but if you get to the root of the matter, weather is really one of the most interesting phenomena we have to deal with on a day to day basis.
Talking about the weather can be a warm-up for a more in-depth conversation. But on its own it is something we all have in common. If it rains, we get wet. If it is humid, our hair goes frizzy. If it is cold, we all sport coats and hats and boots. And if the weather is perfect then we love to comment on it. If it is not, then we get to complain about it. It is a common element in all our lives. So, to say that people do not really want to talk about the weather is just wrong-headed on so many different levels.
Often, the weather dictates our activities. Too much rain and the farmers cannot get their fields planted. Too little rain and our green earth turns brown. We invite snow into our lives happily for the first, and maybe the second snowfall. Then we are tired of it. And we do not like too much cold, especially in this area as it affects our grapes and fruit trees and all manner of horticultural activity.
We all have our own opinion as to what makes up the perfect weather. I particularly enjoy the fall when it is at first still warm and sunny, then cool and crisp. But the weather I love the most is when you cannot really feel it. You are neither too warm nor too cold. You can go outside in shirt sleeves and be perfectly comfortable. You need neither to shed your garments nor shield yourself from the elements.
I have often wondered what it would be like to live in a climate that does not change significantly from season to season. Would it become boring? Would I miss the snow and the cold? Would I miss seeing the bare branches of the trees flourish again in the spring? Would I miss the fall colours? Would I miss snow? I have always lived in a climate that changes sometimes on a daily basis, but more radically on a seasonal basis, and I love the variation our climate affords us.
Weather is our common language. And as such, it opens the doors to further conversation, or just the important acknowledgment that “we are all in this together”.
I do not need plot. Or suspense. Or mystery. I love reading about the minutiae of life. The way someone enjoys doing the dishes by hand in a sink full of hot soapy water. Or the description of laundry hanging on the line, with the underwear on a back line hidden from sight. It does not matter that I do not particularly like to do the dishes by hand; or that laundry hanging on the line is not as soft as that that comes out of the dryer. The mechanics of a dishwasher and dryer are much less romantic than the hands-on versions of the same tasks. Mind you I would not want to give up either my (hard won) dishwasher or dryer—but life can be lived without these machines.
I just finished reading a book that had no specific plot, manufactured suspense, or made-up mystery because it was about a real life. Written by Rebecca Barry, “Recipes for a Beautiful Life”, and subtitled “A Memoir in Stories” traces her life lived taking care of two children, managing a marriage (and anyone who has ever been married, knows the institution needs constant management), while trying to plug the leaks in the roof of her new old home. And, oh yeah, she is trying to write a book at the same time.
This book is the result of a journal she kept from October 27, 2008 to January 2, 2012, with an epilogue dated Mother’s Day 2012. The book she was writing while she was keeping this journal was shelved. She thought it had no soul and took it out of the running to be published—much to her publisher’s relief. This book, a memoir of a few short years of her life is full of soul.
On the back of the edition I have are several testimonials—each one giving Barry a glowing and much deserved review. I am only going to quote one, for it sums the book up precisely and beautifully. Elizabeth Gilbert, author of “Eat, Pray, Love” says: “Barry’s prose is a delicate, beautiful balance of wit and yearning. She is an artist of the everyday heartbreak.” My only quibble with Gilbert’s assessment is that the book not only presents the “everyday heartbreak”, it also offers everyday joys. We all need joy to break up the sorrows, and Barry provides us with this reality check. Life is not just a vale of tears; it is also full of delights. We often forget that.
I could overwhelmingly relate to this book and to Barry’s essence, which says a lot because it represents a stage in my life that took place two decades ago. I enjoyed reading about her struggles, her disappointments, the things she was grateful for, and her successes. And she made me realize that we do not give our successes the accolades they deserve. We take them for granted, as if they do not take a lot of hard work and heartache to achieve. It is both similar to and the opposite of labour when you are having a baby—you forget the pain when you see the wonderful outcome, and instead count fingers and toes. (Personally I do not think anyone ever forgets the pain, but who wants to stay mired in that memory?)
Barry gave voice to the most profound statement I have ever read and something I can totally relate to. She said: “….in spite of the fact that I love the idea of self-improvement, I get a little annoyed by the notion that I should actually change any of my behaviour to make it happen.” (This is so me!)
She also makes a wonderful case for finally giving up on something, though it took her a long time to come to that realization. There are some things that are not meant to be. We can be as stubborn as we want about them, but they are in the end, not destined to see the light of day. She came to the conclusion that the book she had put so much stolen time and effort into was not the book that she wanted to put her name to. So many of us are afraid of giving up on something (fill in your own blank) but failure is not giving up; failure is not seeing the truth in a situation.
At the end of her memoir, looking over her life, she closes the book with these words: “This, I thought, is heaven.” Heaven is a slippery thing. Your definition of heaven is probably not the same as mine, but any rendition of heaven has to include bliss, and is there anything more wonderful than feeling blissful?
Do you agree that sometimes we have to give up on something in order to achieve something else?
sometimes it is the simple things that are best…………..
Originally posted on Live & Learn:
There are few perfect things in this world, and one of them is your common everyday pound of butter, cool in its box, printed in blues and greens with pleasant images – a farm, a farmer, a cow at a fence – and divided into quarters wrapped in immaculate paper as neatly tucked and folded as a soldier’s bunk, each section as easy to slide in and out as if riding on soundless rollers, like drawers in a filing cabinet, two two-drawer cabinets placed side by side, the files packed in manila, clean and fresh, with evenly spaced dividers arranged by a tablespoon. To press it to your cheek and then, with a fingernail, to carefully lift the triangular folds at each end, one end at a time, and then, without tearing the paper, to open the final flap and find there butter, yellow, pure, and flawless, too good to…
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My column this week:
I am now driving a green minivan. How is that for an opening line that just grabs you? Well, my vehicle (not particularly of choice but of necessity) is just as I guessed, first cousin to the vehicle deemed to be at the top of the heap of “bland” vehicles. This was so declared by Mike Schlee at AutoGuide.com. He unabashedly chose the Kia Sedona Van as his choice to be at top of “bland mountain”. (Picture me wiping sweat off my brow in relief because my van was not named specifically–although he did say that “minivans are as indiscreet as it comes in the automotive world.” I think he meant to say discreet, but who am I to nitpick when it comes to blandness?) By the way, my van is a vintage Dodge Caravan that just barely makes it into the 21st century.
I am driving a green minivan because some kid ran into my car in November of 2013. At the corner of Queen Street and Mill Street West. He hit me so hard that my car almost 360ed. I found myself on the opposite side of the intersection, turned almost completely around. With my right foot hard on the brake. So hard, that my right knee is now paying the price—but that is another story. Thank God we were in town, and speeds were not excessive—or I may not be telling you my merry story right now.
Just before my car was hit, I saw the surprised look on the driver’s face as the fact that he was going to run into me registered. I can only imagine the look he saw on mine. Surprise tinged with terror is my best guess. The sound of the impact was sickening. Metal hitting metal is not a good sound. I was so relieved to find myself safe and fairly sound that the fact of the accident did not fully hit me at the time. It has since, and my knee seems to be a daily reminder.
Was he texting? I don’t know—though my husband has put forth that theory. His explanation for not seeing the stop sign at the four way stop was that his attention was being taken away from the road by the passengers in the car. So who knows? The end result is that my car was totalled. Not crushed up in a tiny ball—but totalled so far as it could not be driven.
The policeman who showed up at the scene was compassionate. I think he thought I was a little nuts as I was worried about the kid who hit me. He, in essence, put the blame where it should be and explained to me that I was not at fault and how the accident likely happened.
Of course there was a little trouble getting what we thought we deserved from the insurance company, (which was not much considering the age of my car) but the local agent was great and helped us through. And we finally got close to what we thought we deserved….just enough to buy an older, used van with great mileage.
Regret and Contentment
I loved the little car I was driving and had inherited from my father-in-law at the time of the accident. It was a champagne coloured Aurora. I know you are not supposed to call a vehicle “cute” so I will call it “sporty” and “classy” instead. But really, I think it was cute. And it went fast. Like lightning. Not that I would know—except the few times I let her go on the McCain Sideroad. I really, really liked that car, even though by today’s standards it was ancient.
When I cranked up the radio and rock and rolled around town I did not look ridiculous (okay, maybe a little), but cranking up the radio in a minivan and bopping to the music does look ridiculous. But I don’t care. I still do it.
And if truth be told, I kind of like the van. It is the ultimate in incognito. Looks like I have nothing to prove. No red convertible with the top down for me (though in my heart of hearts I really do want a red convertible). Now, all I have to do is remember where I park it—because quite literally, everyone and their dog have a green van. I am ashamed to say I have climbed in the driver’s seat of a couple (people don’t you lock your doors?) before I realized it was not mine.
My weekly column which is timed for the 1st of July, Canada Day. Happy 4th to our neighbours, the U.S.:
“With or without the Royals, we are not Americans.
Nor are we British. Or French. Or Void. We are
something else.” ~ Will Ferguson
It is official. It is now summer. Not meteorological summer which apparently started on June 1st. Or unofficial summer which generally in Canada, is thought to be the Victoria Day weekend. It is now real and true summer. Sunday past was the longest daylight day of the year, and fast its heels is our celebration next week of Canada Day.
There have been many a rant on what it is to be Canadian—we went from not being sure who we were, to being a hockey playing, beer swilling, maple syrup pouring people. But we are much more than that. Personally I cannot imagine being anything but a Canadian. I love my country as much as one can love something which at first glance seems to be inanimate.
After all our country is made up of the usual things—trees, water, terra firma, mountains, hills, valleys, prairies etc. But Canada is its people, and as such we are not inanimate at all.
Anyone who has been backpacking in Europe knows the power of having our flag proudly displayed on their backpack. The tiny symbol sewn onto a piece of canvas is powerful. People generally like Canadians. And why? Because on the whole, we are pretty darn nice people. Okay, admittedly we all know some pretty rotten people, who just happen to be Canadian, but for purposes of this column they are nonentities or persona(s) non grata.
Lots of famous people have commented on Canada. One of my favourites comes from Jane Fonda, and no matter what your feelings are about the actress—she did get this right. She said that, “When I’m in Canada, I feel this is what the world should be like.” Yes, we have our problems, but observed by someone outside our boundaries, we look pretty darn good.
Winston Churchill once declared our future as having “no limits”. He predicted that Canada had a “majestic future” and that our people are “virile, aspiring, cultured and generous-hearted ”. He may have been tippling at the time of this statement, but obviously it did not affect his judgment.
In the quote that opens this column Will Ferguson defines who we are not and says: “We are something else.” I agree with him, but not with how he completes his thought. He says that “the sooner we define (ourselves) the better.” This is old thinking. We have defined ourselves. I think each individual Canadian knows in her/his heart just what kind of person they are, and at heart that person is a Canadian.
Will’s book with his brother Ian, “How to be Canadian” written in 2001 is already a bit long in the tooth, but some of the questions in their quiz at the back of the book are still relevant. This is my rendition of the quiz using my own scoring system with a bit of help from the Brothers Ferguson. Also, it will help you if you are of a “certain age”:
1. If you hear the name Elvis and immediately think of figure skating ~ 1 point
2. If you still don’t know the capital of New Brunswick ~ 1 point
3. If you have ever posed for a picture beside a Big Object next to a highway ~ 1 point
4. If you have ever curled ~ 1 point
5. If you were the skip ~ 1 point
6. If you have ever been to Niagara Falls ~ 1 point
7. …..in a barrel ~ 50 points
8. If you still know all the words to the Molson “I am Canadian” rant ~ minus 50 points
9. If you are proud to be Canadian, even if you don’t watch hockey, swill beer, or smother stuff with maple syrup ~ 50 points ~ because Canadian are (mostly) tolerant.
Happy Canada Day to all, and to all a good summer!
So what do you do to celebrate Canada’s birthday? And those of you who are not Canadian–besides Americans, who I know celebrate on the 4th–when and how do you celebrate? Answers from you 4th of Julyers are more than welcome.
Why do I rail at words that are spelled incorrectly but when I do it, think I should be forgivne?
I am sure all you fathers out there agree……
Originally posted on Live & Learn:
Scott Addington writes, “As is often the case, my purpose became clearly evident after I had stopped looking for it. On October 11, 1995, my daughter was born. Beginning with that moment, there has never been the slightest doubt regarding the purpose and source of meaning in my life. Being a father is the most meaningful and rewarding pursuit a man could ever hope to experience.”
~ David Brooks, Hearts Broken Open
well written–I am rethinking the “perfect moment”….
Originally posted on ScribbleDartsfromtheHeart:
I am waiting for the perfect moment
to make my move and call.
I am waiting for my calendar to clear
to be able to sit for awhile.
I am waiting until I know
that we won’t be interrupted,
I don’t want my message to be
misinterpreted or corrupted.
As I wait for the perfect moment
I know the years are passing
but my courage is also growing,
expanding and amassing.
And now here I lie
on my deathbed ready to expire…
I never found the perfect moment
to which I had aspired.