a backpack or bookends

Sometimes we make decisions. Other times, decisions are made for us.

I've been fired.

Ha. I'm laughing. This is great. Okay, so I haven't really been fired. I've been 'released'. Freed. As my boss put it, he's throwing me into the pool. He's letting me go. The print industry is slow these days and I'm too expensive to keep as the sole employee of a small business -- the same business I considered purchasing on my return to Ontario. So, I did what every rational person would do in such a situation: I called up my other boss at the group home and told him I'm quitting. No more night shifts at the group home. And no more day shifts at the print shop. As of March 16, I'll be unemployed. And as of April 1 I'll be homeless, as my parents are also forcing freedom on me. They're not heartless and cruel. They just want their life back. I don't blame them. Ha. Nothing surprises me these days.

I have a tendency to take some things in stride. It's a tendency that drives my mother crazy. But I can't help it. It's who I am. So, now I am faced with a question: a backpack or bookends? It's been brewing in me for a while to just pack all my stuff into a backpack and take off for unknown destinations. What holds me back is the other desire: to find a home, a wife, and a bookshelf on which to hold all my books. To settle, or not to settle?. That is the question.

pain.

I think if we were given a reason for why there is pain and suffering in our world, we would use it as an excuse to not care for those who are experiencing it. Now we're left with the option to care. Because there's no reason for it.

The other day, an email was waiting in my inbox. It was from a youth who is working through an age-old question of faith: Why does God allow suffering in our world? Her question wasn't raised through class discussion, a youth group Bible study, or through a sermon she may have listened to. It was not philisophical in nature. It was not even blatantly theological. In fact, that wasn't really her question. Her questions were raised through her experiences in life: Why is a friend, who has been through so much crap and who doesn't have a strong relationship with God suddenly being dealt another rotten situation? Why is my life so easy in comparison? And what do I do?

Whew.

I could have responded with one of many Christian clichés about sin and the fall of man, but I think answers like that are designed to give us an excuse to carry on with our lives with our backs turned. Especially here in North America. I know I've used that as an excuse, and I continue to do so. She's probably heard all the clichés anyway -- after all, she did grow up in the church. What I've discovered in my few and brief experiences of talking to, listening to and being around those who suffer, is that I become the better for it. But I don't think that others are meant to suffer for my sake. For my growth. There's a balance that needs to be found. Though I'm not sure I've found it yet. I remember an episode that took place in Uganda last summer; something that I wrote about, but never posted here. It's the story (and thoughts) of Xavier:

We were brought to one of five campuses of the Kampala Pentecostal Church (KPC). In some ways it was like walking into a North American church. In others, it was a brand new experience. We sang the same worship songs, with the added bonus of a 50-something voice choir and 2,500 strong congregation. Following a message on loving our neighbours, we walked back out onto the streets of Kampala, right past a man sitting on the corner of the parking lot. He sat with his wheelchair, crutches, and a pan. As usual, questions, concern, and a bit of frustration weighed down my thoughts...all compounded by the fact that this man was sitting right outside a church where those walking past had just listened to a sermon on loving their neighbour. Looking back towards him, and then looking towards the team I could tell that Simon had possibly similar thoughts running through his head.

"I can tell you're thinking," I said. "What about?"
"Same thing as you," he replied.

So, together, we walked over and sat with Xavier. Unfortunately, that was about the extent of our knowledge of Xavier as he was rather hard to understand. After our brief and disjointed conversation, Simon left some money in the pan and we walked back to our waiting van.

Much of the past few days has been spent trying to understand the desire to care that I feel when I meet the David's, the Justin's, the Xavier's. What is it about? There's a tension that happens between whether it is about them or about me. David still sleeps in the roundabout. Justin still walks several miles to his bed. Xavier will still sit at the corner of Buganda Road and the KPC parking lot. And I will return to my bed, my car, my job. I will return to a better life, as I understand 'better' to be. And I will leave David, Justin and Xavier behind.

Compassion is a fickle thing. Does God give a heart of compassion to change others, or to change the compassionate? Or is it both? Will David remember the white guy who gave no money, gave no food, took no pictures and asked questions? Will Justin? Xavier? Or are the stories I've heard, the poverty I've seen, the lives I've collided with in Uganda forever remain solely with me?

I still don't have the answers. Which in a way, is cool. Because I couldn't give any answers to the youth who was asking the questions. It's something she'll have to figure out as she discovers her own heart of compassion. All I could tell her is that all she could do -- and all she is called to do -- is walk alongside her friend. And it was in that reply that something profound struck a chord in my thoughts. That's really all Christ did. He didn't leave this world in perfect order. He didn't heal everybody. He had to leave behind the broken, the hurting, the lame, the deaf....

And he told us to walk with them in his place......

Many people use the excuse that there is too much pain and suffering in our world for there to be a God. God or not, pain and suffering will still exist. The choice remains ours.

two.

She's two years old now. Well, technically she's ten, but I've only really gotten to know her over the past two years. Happy Birthday, Swift! It's been a good year for her. She has continued to serve me faithfully, from daily commutes in the Lower Mainland of BC and a 4,000 km journey home for more daily commuting in Southern Ontario. This year has proved much less expensive than last year with my only expenses being oil changes, gas, insurance and two speeding tickets. But she's entering the terrible two's, and I'm worried she'll start acting up. I think she has bladder control issues....I noticed some yellow snow under her front end this morning. Oh, Swift.

purpose[fulness]

It's coming back. ha. It's all coming back to me now. My apologies to all non-Celine fans. Especially to those of you who now have the song stuck in your head; her voice torturing your inner ear. At any rate, the lyrics ring true.

Youth work has not really been something I've been involved in since returning to Ontario. ...Well...I have been. But I haven't been. Let me explain:

The week I got home, I was 'informed' that my church was in need of some leaders for the grade 9 boys. I say informed because the underlying intent in my informant's mind was to play the guilt-trip card that I so easily fall for. And I fell for it. Next thing I know, I'm spending my second weekend in Ontario with a group of youth on a retreat. And thus began the saga of this burnt-out-former-youth-director-struggling-to-find-his-way-in-life-grade-nine-boys-youth-leader. [Fortunately I had some affect on one other person to join me in this struggle (thanks James)]. While we have managed to put together some decent group material for our kids, I've realized that I am doing to these youth exactly what I feared I would do to the youth in BC: not care about them. It's a harsh realization. I simply put my time in, about 4 hours a month. Beyond that, I am not involved in the lives of these youth, something I know is the foundation of youth work. I just do what I have to do month after month. Because I suckered myself into it.

Which is a thought that will lead into the point of this post: purposefulness. I was asked a little while ago which of the jobs I have worked were the most enjoyable. Truth be told, there are aspects of every job that I have enjoyed. If I were to be honest, the job I currently have is a dream job for many: I sit behind a desk most of the day and am only required to do 'work' when a customer walks in the door. Upon further reflection of her question though, I have in a roundabout way asked myself a different, related question: which job have I felt the most purpose in? The answer to that is a lot less complicated. Youth Work. There has been purpose in every job I have done: whether it be carting around barrels of maple syrup, cutting flowers, delivering newspapers, or printing menus and business cards. But I have only truly felt purposeful in my work with youth. It's like the difference between breathing in fresh winter air and breathing the air in my car today after I stepped in some dog crap. Either way, I'm breathing air. Youth work just feels better deep down. [not that my other jobs have been crap...it's just an analogy that works for today because of stupid neighbour-lady's dog]

I can smell a hint of fresh air. It's coming. I'm not gonna rush it...it'll come when the time is right. First things first though: I gotta get Celine's voice out of my head...

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Purpose

I need to elaborate on what I mean by this word. I want to stay away from any reference to the word 'purpose' that might automatically put into the reader's mind two things: 1) The Purpose-Driven Life and 2) Rick Warren.

The 'purpose' I am referring to makes more sense when put it into the words of James as we discussed life over our regular $2.50 pasta meal last night. I wish we recorded the conversation (as we often say after such conversations), but here's the gyst of what he said and what makes sense to me as I type it out: it's like there's a sine wave of what you know you are capable of (gifted in) and what you are actually doing--and whether they line up or not. It was along those lines, and maybe something I'll elaborate on in a future post. Hope that makes sense.

Back to Post

Max.

there lives in grimsby a man by the name of Max. if you have lived in this town long enough, chances are good you have crossed his path. rarely will he cross yours, as most times it's you who walks by while he stands still on the street or sits on a chair in the local grocery store. long-time residents of this town affectionately (or not-so-affectionately) call him 'crazy Max'. it's not really that he's crazy, per se, but it is clear that he has some wires crossed. he used to live just up the street from us, so i would often walk past him while delivering newspapers in the neighbourhood. i remember how he would always comment on the weather.

'hi Max, how you doing?'
'oh, the weather is great today. just great. yup, the weather ... i say, the weather is great today.'
'it sure is, Max. have a great day!'
'well thank you. thank you. yes. thank you...yes...'

that's Max.

Max doesn't much talk about the weather anymore. it wasn't uncommon in the years before leaving the grim that i would see Max standing on the street corners in the very early hours of the morning. he didn't much talk about the weather then either. in fact, he didn't really talk at all. he yelled. and he would yell at no one and nothing in particular. Max picked up a very colourful language, too. i still remember the day i watched helplessly as some local teens swore at him while he stood in front of milk 'n things.

i've run into Max a few times since returning to the grim, most often as he sits just past the express check-out line of our local food basics. tonight he sat there drinking a one litre of chocolate milk. it seems he had a bad day today, though he wouldn't elaborate. he was just too tired to elaborate. maybe it was the weather. it hasn't been so great lately.

california

The snow has been falling all day, gradually creating drifts and piles as each unique flake attaches itself to the one that landed just ahead of it. Fifty centimetres of cold, fluffy snow is expected to fall by end of day, so naturally, my mind has jumped into the Swift and driven to California. Fortunately, blowing snow tends to keep the customers away, so my mind can lay on the beach without a care in the world. I hope it goes surfing.

oh, California.

The last time I was in California, it was in the burning heat of summer. 40º celsius, baby. I'm not sure if it's the actual thought of California that draws me to return, or whether it's just the heat. I get an urge to return to it's heat every time I watch CSI:Miami and the show cuts to an aerial shot of buildings on the edge of the water, heat waves dancing on the TV screen. Maybe it's the thought of sitting on the edge of the ocean, breathing the salty air into which I throw all my cares. That rhymes, and will one day make a great line for a song or a poem. Or, 'one day' will be today:

Waking up in California

The morning sun dawns through the shadows
Of a gloomy winters day.
Weary eyes lose their waking battles
And join my body where it lay.

While my mind wakes up in California.

It tans where sun and ocean collide,
Breathing in the salty air.
While in peaceful rest, the time I bide,
And to the wind I throw my cares.

For now I wake up in California.

a Rwanda in the making

there exists in Africa a country directly south of Egypt called Sudan. undoubtedly you have come across this name through blips in news reports, the scrolling marquee of a 24-hour news station, or an article hidden in the back pages of your local newspaper. with each report, you may have come across one of many catchy, but ambiguous phrases such as 'Save Darfur', or, 'the worst humanitarian crisis in the world today'. Sudan, with it's western Darfur region, rests two countries north of another name you will have undoubtedly heard: Rwanda. it is being said that the crisis in Darfur is reminiscent of the atrocities that occurred in Rwanda in 1994. some similarities are clear: an unco-operative government that perpetuates war, rebel armies, ill-equipped 'peacemakers', strife between ethnicities, millions of displaced locals, hundreds of thousands killed. and first world nations that base decisions on their bottom line.

like me, you may be asking yourself: what can i do about it? here's what you can do.

life.

i was watching The Hour on CBC in the wee hours of the morning as i waited for my night-shift to end. apparently (and i'm sure this isn't news to many, as i know i've heard it before), the #1 fear of most people is public speaking. #2 is death. interesting. i don't necessarily fear death -- and it's not because my faith tells me that there's a 'better life' beyond life here on earth. i don't think much about heaven, probably because there's too much happening in regular life to allow for such distractions. no, i don't fear death for the sake of faith, but for those times when life's realities and struggles make death seem more easy to deal with. this may seem morbid, but i know i'm not the only one who has had such thoughts. and such thoughts bring with them a choice. i know i will always choose life.

unfortunately, some do choose death. and even more unfortunate are those who are brought death by the cruelties of humanity. i recently finished reading Shake Hands with the Devil by Roméo Dallaire, the Force Commander of the UN troops in Rwanda during its genocide of 1994. Dallaire fills his book with personal experiences in the field during the genocide, from witnessing the slaughter first-hand to dealing with the bureocracy of ignorant and apathetic first World governments. in the end, Dallaire speaks of hope in the idea of the future being a 'Century of Humanity' (an idea he picked up from the former Secretary-General of the UN, Kofi Annan).

A Century of Humanity.

the prospect of such an ideal astounds me. to be in a world where we can all put aside our differences -- political, cultural, tribal, religious -- impresses on me a huge desire to actually see it happen. normally, i would finish this post by writing something about the fact that such an ideal exists -- in a time beyond this life. it would be a great tie-in to my comment on heaven, but will accomplish nothing in the fact that we are all still in this life -- on this earth -- together. and it will only be an ideal if it exists in the thrones of cabinets and political postings where wars and economic sanctions are formulated. an idea of this magnitude must begin at the grassroots level. with you. and with me.

it's called life. living. it's something we all do -- why can't we just do it together?

early morning mind wanderings

I have a love / loathe relationship with mornings like this....those early mornings that I find myself tossing and turning in bed, desperate for the sleep that escapes my wandering mind. I went to bed two hours ago but have yet to sleep. I'm not sure whether it's the coffee I had 7 hours ago -- which really shouldn't be affecting me -- or whether it's the remnants of a weekend working the graveyard shift. At any rate, I think my body hates me, so now I've decided to do the next best thing aside from sleeping: blog. Take that, body! Ironically, despite the fact that my mind has been running a million miles a minute the past two hours, I really have nothing significant to post. But, hey, it's 2007! So why not a review of the year that was. When I was up North, I was asked what 2006 meant to me. I think I answered something along the lines of 'discovery', but as I thought about it more on my train journey back south, I came to a clearer picture of this past year. It was a year of completion for me:

I actually graduated from a post-secondary educational institution (where I learned all those big words) with a two-year diploma in Youth Work. Not a huge accomplishment for some, but it deserves a notch in my belt.

I managed to accomplish one of my life goals - Africa. While it now seems a distant memory, the experiences still exist in the recesses of my mind, occasionally recurring as I read about Africa, or catch a glimpse of a World Vision ad on TV.

I left a job and a position that had been my ultimate goal throughout my time as a youth-worker-in-training. I have no regrets about leaving the position [aside from the relationships built and left behind], and I value the experience I had working within the walls of a church, but at times I wonder if my next decision was the best one.

That decision being the end of my time in BC. Permanent or not, I found myself packing all my worldly possessions into the Swift and heading East in pursuit of possibilities. It is the final mark of completion in the year that was.

2006 was filled with possibilities, challenges, new experiences, decisions to be made, consequences of decisions made, times of joy, times of frustration and sorrow, and, overall, just the inevitability of history being made one minute to the next.

2007 will be filled with the same, I'm sure. In some respects, I feel as though I'm exactly where I was a year ago and in other respects, my experiences have shaped new aspects of my life, or altered pre-existing aspects (for better and worse). I think this is where I write some wise words about making better choices, about 'keeping the faith', about waiting in eager expectation for what's to come in this new year. But I think I'm finding myself entering the new year blindly, with no clue as to what it might bring. It doesn't leave me waiting in eager expectation, it doesn't bring insights into how to make better choices, and January finds me struggling to keep the faith. And all the while, minutes eternally pass by, never to be repeated. Maybe it's time to make the most out of those precious minutes -- to squeeze the life out of all 60 seconds. Maybe...just maybe...it's time to sleep.

Aroland

The train pulled into a station 11 hours later, at 4am. Nakina. As the snow fell lightly out the windows of Train #1, I once again gathered all the necessities of life that were crammed in two backpacks and walked off the train into the –10 degree weather of Northern Ontario. Soon I would find myself sleeping comfortably in the wood-stove warmed home of superfriend Ryan and his wife, Amanda, in apprehensive expectation of the days to come. While this trip would be a getaway from the norm of Southern Ontario life, it would not entirely be a holiday during this, the holiday season.

A couple of months ago, I got a call from Ryan, who was in search of a youth worker to lead a group of teens into the neighbouring First Nations reservation of Aroland to hang out with the kids for a week. I told him I’d get back to him. He got back to me first, saying that the group of teens would not be going up, so my assumption had been that the trip was off…until a late night phone call. John Reynolds, a man with a passion for First Nations youth, called to see if I was still coming up to work with the kids of Aroland. A bit confused, a bit curious and a bit hesitant I told him I’d get back to him.

Two weeks later, I found myself in a taxi cab, chasing down a train.

Little Africa

Five days of driving in and out of a First Nations reservation to interact solely with its future generation cannot and does not bring a full picture of life on a reserve. What I saw from the outside – as an outsider – did not line up with the statistics I had inside my mind. And the statistics are mind-boggling. But, like Africa, they tend to be statistics of a situation that seems to be bigger than the assistance of any North American with a desire to help. The irony of it is that these are statistics from within North America, where the major concern is not AIDS. Or famine. Or tribal warfare. In Aroland, and in many reservations across this first world country, kids face the consequences of their parents drinking problems either through dealing with an alcoholic parent or directly through the effects of Fetal Alcohol Syndrome. Here, and in many reservations across this first world country, kids face the reality of a friends’ or a community members suicide. Here, I have heard of a 12-year-old girl drinking hairspray for its alcohol content. And like most kids growing up in North America, there is the constant pressure of drugs.

It’s sad to think that I feel like I needed to see a drunk parent, or a stoned kid, or a funeral for a victim of suicide to believe that these statistics are realities. I had to see the IDP Camps in Northern Uganda to know such places existed, despite the sponsor-a-child commercials. I had to see Ground Zero in December of 2001 to comprehend the reality of September 11, despite the television repetitively showing the twin towers collapsing. But what I did see in Aroland were kids. Kids are kids, no matter where you are in the world. And I can only assume that life will not get easier for them as they age and come to grips with the reality of the world they are brought up in.

There is a certain amount of joyful freedom in being a child, though I will admit that the kids I saw in Aroland have experienced more in life than I had by the time I turned nine. And they seem to be aware of that fact. As I was talking to a group of the First Nations youth, something I said triggered a response that still rings in my ears: ‘Yeah, but you don’t know Aroland.” He's right. My knowledge on the history of First Nations communities and reservations is vague at best, let alone their current situation. And so these thoughts are as of yet unfinished. And so is the processing of my experiences in Northern Ontario.

the rail.

Rail travel is not meant to be as adventurous in the 21st century as it was in the days of steam trains, but I’ve discovered a way to re-create the past.

Currently: traveling Toronto to Nakina, VIA Rail: 3:00pm.

This 20 hour train journey was to begin promptly at 9am from Union Station in Toronto. At 9:15am, I find myself questioning the passenger behind me in a line of people walking towards Gate 10. The questions in my mind are verbalized as I become aware of the fact that my train was to depart from Gate 8, and I suddenly find myself herded along with the other passengers past the pillar with that label. “Where are you headed?” asks I. “Ottawa,” he replies. “You?” Knowing full well that Nakina, my destination, will mean nothing to likely every other person I unexpectedely find myself boarding a train for Ottawa with, I reply with my trains ultimate destination, “Vancouver.” And the reality of stupidity crosses my mind. I have just spent the last half hour waiting in line for a Gate that has been fully opened for likely an hour, welcoming those guests who wish to travel from Toronto to Vancouver via Nakina.

Finding the nearest VIA representative, I explain my situation, knowing full well that it is a hopeless one as the next train headed to Nakina leaves Toronto on Thursday, two days away. Mine is the route less traveled. Thankfully, the holiday spirit is still in the air as the VIA rep goes to ‘see what she can do’. Five minutes later, she returns with the hint of a smile – the kind of smile one gets when they know that it is guaranteed to be returned with another smile. “I found you a ride to Washaga”, or whatever it’s called. Washaga, Washabo, Wash-something-or-other. Whatever it is, it’s the next stop after Toronto for my train, and it happens to be an hour and a half north of Union Station. And I need to get there, pronto.

Ten minutes later, my ride arrives: a brand new Lincoln cab, driven by Sadar of Niagara Tours, complements of VIA Rail. The chase is on. Like two armed bandits, Sadar and I gallop full throttle in pursuit of the promising loot of a passenger-filled train, it’s rising steam disappearing in the distance. We have an hour and a half to meet up with a train that is, by VIA’s timetable standards, 1 hour and 20 minutes away. Under normal circumstances, this would be no problem. But the man at the reins is riding a new horse, and decides that this would be a great time to break in his trusty steed’s cruise control. Time is ticking as we pull into Barrie to check our status on a map and fill up on fuel. 50 km away, 25 minutes to go. With the cruise control mastered, Sadar sets our pace at 140 km/h , and we gallop down Highway 11, past Orillia and all the other towns along the way. My train is to arrive in Washago at 11:08am. We trot into the station at … 11:08am.

Suspense-filled pause.

A man waits alone on the platform, taking in deep breaths of nicotine, luggage at his side. Jumping out of the car, I dash over to him with one question on my mind: “Are you waiting for VIA?”

Suspense-filled pause.

“Yup,” he replies. And with a handshake and a hug, Sadar proudly declares our victory to timetables and runaway trains. Mission accomplished, Sadar jumps back in the saddle of his new pride and joy, and rides off into the, er…midday sun… with promises of a future meeting in Grimsby to discuss our adventurous tale over a round of Tim Horton’s coffee.

And now, four hours later, I find myself on the elusive train as it courses it’s way through rocky passages and lightly dusted snow on green pine and white birch, interspersed with the lakes of which can only be found in Northern Ontario. In the distance the sound of a train whistle emanates from the diesel engine three cars ahead, whose constant drone provides a perfect backdrop for the music that quietly plays through my headphones. I love train rides.

freedom in flying

There's something about flying that brings with it a deep sense of freedom. I don't know what it is really, but the peace I feel as I wait for my flight number to announced, the absolute state of relaxation I feel as I sit through the protocols of airplane safety is, truly, profound. Maybe it's because I know that everything I really need in life is "safely stowed under the seat in front of me" or buried beneath the belongings of my traveling companions in the cargo hold under my feet. Perhaps my sense of freedom comes from knowing that all obligations, all commitments, all of my daily duties have been left behind with Pearson International Airport.

Currently: Flying 482 mph at 36084 feet, Toronto to Vancouver. Home to Home: 2pm

I crave this sense of freedom that I feel right now. I have longed for it since returning to Ontario. And I find it ironic -- not that this freedom comes as I return to BC, but that it comes to me while in limbo - while flying thousands of feet above the earth that forces me to make decisions. Any decisions I make right now cannot affect my immediate life - except for the stupid decisions that cause emergency landings and terrorist interrogations. But those daily decisions that we make everyday have no impact on life when in the air: Should I get up today? Should I fill my car with gas? Should I print that job now, or wait for a more 'convenient' time? Do I make that phone call? Send that email? Talk to that person on MSN? None of those decisions can be made here. There truly is a sense of freedom in flying.

Plans. Our world seems to revolve around plans. We've got a 'plan' for reducing emissions in Canada. We've got a 'plan' for Iraq. We've got a 'plan' to solve the AIDS crisis in Africa. Those are the big things, but we're told we need to make plans for our lives. Plan your retirement now! Plan your child's education finances now! Plan your budget. Plan your funeral. Plan your holidays. Plan your day, right down to the quarter-hour. It seems there is no escaping our culture's need to plan.

Maybe I rant against our need for plans right now because I have none. No plans. Naughta. It seems that the things I plan end up finding a wrench in the gears at some point anyway. I'm trying to remember what the Bible says about plans. Oh yeah: Commit your plans to the Lord, and they will succeed. [Why do I remember that?] How much time do we spend planning our next plan and not committing our plans to the One who will allow fruit to come from them? It's a lesson I continue to learn. Over and over and over again. Okay, so it's a lesson that goes in one ear and out the other. Over and over and over again. And yet, I continue to plan my plans and assume that they are okay because they seem right to me, they seem like a logical next step in this plan-driven world I find myself in. And it feels right, dang it.

Does this all mean that we are really meant to live life on impulse? And does that really just boil our existence down to the age-old concept to fight or flight? If that's true, my impulses are locked in flight mode. Ha. The irony of typing this as I sit on Westjet flight #803 is, well....ironic. Maybe it's time to fight. Maybe we really are meant to, at some point, stop acting on impulse and fear, buckle down and strap the boxing gloves on. The question is: which battles do I choose to fight, and on which battleground? And perhaps the bigger question is: will I choose to fight alone?

mirrors. part two.

4:00 am, somewhere in Hamilton

I just watched somebody kick the passenger-side mirror off my car. Frick. Why me? Oh, Swift.

the gears keep slippin'

it's analogy time, boys and girls! it's been a while, but today is actually a good day, so i figured it'd also be a good day to blog since it's not guaranteed to last and i'll need to remember this.

it seems the gears are starting to engage.
they've been slippin' lately.

the gears i speak of are the ones full of facts that you know are true...but are unable to make an impact because they are facts that have brought about unwanted change. they're the kind of facts that would make more sense if you were able to remove yourself completely from a situation and look at it from all possible angles.

the facts have been spinnin' in my head for weeks.
they just haven't engaged.

today it feels like they have, at the very least, brushed against one another and caused a minute shift in positioning. looking back, the facts themselves have never changed....they were there from the beginning. and they've been staring us in the face for months. yet we chose to keep them from engaging. and the longer we held them at bay, the more strain they were under...until a series of (un)fortunate events brought about the needed release of the disengager.

and the clock began ticking again.
and time hit home.

there's that funny word again. time. ha. i smile.

starting over.

ontario has yet to fully feel like home. i know i had to come back to figure out if there is something for me here....a potential future. i know i had to cross one more 'what if' off my list of possibilities, and if i choose not to pursue this path then my future will be as blank as a fresh sheet of 28 lb. Hammermill laser paper. that's some print talk for ya. there's so much in this world that can be done, but i find it hard to figure out where to start and how to make it fit my life. three years in BC didn't reveal my future, but they did help me understand myself more than i had known in my 23 years in Ontario. and that i certainly don't regret. but just when i thought i had some things figured out, they end up being the very things that throw everything off balance and [once again] cause me to refocus. this month will be a month of answer-seeking and decision-making. i've been here before...i can do it again. frick. i wish i could take to heart the things i write in this blog.