I dwell in possibility

Two days before my birthday, I was feeling pretty beaten up. There was a lot going on in life. So many stresses, worries, hollowness, sadness, fear, and general angst. I was outside shovelling, having what I’ve come to refer to as a Sad Shovel, a ritual I have found myself in many times over the past couple of winters. Once again, I felt utterly defeated, on my spiritual knees, quietly begging the universe for support and strength as I scraped and heaved the frosty white snow onto the towering mountains framing the driveway.

The next day, which was the day before my birthday, I was feeling restless. I was back at work, navigating complications and the ongoing emotional strain of caretaking during my breaks, including taking my bunny to the vet’s for subcutaneous fluids, among other difficult moments. In the brief pauses between tasks, when I surfaced for air and tried to steady myself, I became aware of a restless grasping for something, though I didn’t yet know what.

As the workday dragged on, I was suddenly pulled toward a book a friend had mentioned some time ago: The Comfort Book by Matt Haig. It had been sitting in my reading pile for ages. I’d picked it up long ago, read partway through, and then set it down beside my chair by the kitchen table, where it remained for months and months despite the best intentions. Life had crowded it out, and even thinking about picking it up had felt like trying to reach across an impassable chasm.

And yet, for some reason, I walked into the kitchen and picked it up. A thin layer of dust clung to the cover, which I wiped away before carrying it back to my office chair. The bookmark sat barely a third of the way in. I slipped it out – there was no point in saving a spot from that far back in time – and began flipping through the pages. I was searching for something, though for what, I couldn’t have said. A quest without a clear destination.

These kinds of books, featuring a collection of anecdotes and meditations often invite you to dip in anywhere, to read out of order, but I’ve always been a sequential reader, loyal to beginnings and endings. And yet, on that day, I flipped.

Again and again, my eyes landed on a sentence repeated throughout the book: Nothing is stronger than a small hope that doesn’t give up. Each time, I paused, it resonated, and then I moved on.

Then suddenly, my eyes landed on a title of a meditation. I let out an audible gasp and instinctively raised my hand to my mouth. My center seemed to collapse inward in shock.

Negative Capability.

I reread it, stunned and disbelieving. Negative Capability – the title of Dad’s beloved first poetry chapbook, a phrase borrowed from John Keats. Thinking of John Keats was like receiving a shower of warmth, bringing with it fond memories. (Long ago, in grade 11, I pledged to live by John Keats’ words – “O! For a life of sensations than of thoughts”. I realize now that following intuitive pulls was part of that vow.)

The words across the next three pages landed like footfalls on my heart. There were references filled with shared meaning between Dad and me. John Keats. Shakespeare. Miles Davis. Zen. And then there was Satori– enlightenment through surrender, and my screen name, my alter ego, on social media for many years.

Negative Capability. Dad’s beautiful chapbook. And, most meaningfully of all, that collection includes a poem dedicated to me: Notes from the garden.

It was deeply comforting – found once again through inner listening, through the kind of coincidences that happen too clearly, too frequently to be dismissed as coincidence at all. A beautiful birthday gift.

Thank you, Dad. ❤️

Cooped up inside while the world outside sits frozen in ice, I’ve been aching for the thaw of spring. That restless energy recently drew my mind back to a Tai Chi course Dad and I took years ago. He was the one who signed us up, and I was all in. Each week, we learned new movements in the  the Sun Style mini-set sequence by Dr. Paul Lam. The sequence is a series of slow, mindful movements that help harmonize the heart, spirit, and body. Though we were both initially amused and stymied by the complex “Waving Hands Like Clouds” sequence, Dad was eventually captivated by this beautiful move and it became one of his favourites.

While Dad kept up the practice after the course, my life – cluttered by five jobs along with pets to care for – got in the way. Though we searched for videos online over the years, we only found a VHS tape which is now potentially too old and brittle to play.

While hunting for clear envelopes to preserve some found feathers (yes; more.) this past weekend, I found myself digging through layers of the past. Tucked deep in a basket, inside a folder from 2003-ish, my original Sun Style pamphlet literally fell into my lap. Pure joy. Somewhat anticlimactically and incidentally, the envelopes I’d been looking for appeared immediately thereafter – an  afterthought to a quest I hadn’t realized I was on. As is often the case, Dad led the way.

To my delight, I’ve since found the specific mini set sequence on YouTube. Armed with my original course notes and video links I look forward to revisiting the moves once more with renewed intention.

For anyone else curious and/or seeking low-impact exercise regiment for joint health, stability and balance, this set creates a meditative flow that gently improves flexibility and internal energy, one example of a link is here: https://youtu.be/yoN6P9D4yAY?si=Bc-EDJj-6OEtT4Xt (The tricky bit will be to follow along – the instructor was our “mirror” in the courses).

As February unfolded, the Alice in Wonderland references in my life continued to emerge. I began to work my way through the second story Through the Looking Glass, a sequel noted for charming chess-board pieces and an irreverent play at logic and convention. One striking moment of synchronicity was when I realized that even the squirrel calendar by my workstation at home was aligned to the theme. This particular calendar was a favorite of my dad’s, always hanging by his computer, and there it was, February 2026’s theme: two squirrels locked in a match of chess. “Curiouser and curiouser,” as Alice would say. There were other coincidences, too, though they slipped through my grasp and out of my mind at the time.

Despite knowing the fundamental moves of chess, I remain a rudimentary player. And yet, I spent hours as a child playing with my father’s feautiful felt-bottomed wooden set. I can still feel the satisfying, smooth texture of the pieces and my fingers tracing over their carved contours.

I am nearly through the looking-glass now.

I have been captivated by its curious inhabitants. Each character operates within a self-contained logic that belongs to them alone; they live in their own private bubbles, defined by unique ways of experiencing and interpreting reality. Which, come to think of it, are hyperbolic versions of our own human experience. It is no wonder they struggle so deeply to communicate with one another; perhaps their rigid, literal speech is simply a desperate attempt to bridge that gap.

The land itself shares this instability, with warped flows of time and space where landscapes and backdrops shift as Alice moves from one “square” to the next. The chapters are a series of vignettes loosely connected in space and time, mirroring the way my own memories are catalogued – the “in between” inconsequential bits fade, leaving only the between the breathtakingly vivid, sensory laden moments behind. I’ll keep generating memories, until, I suppose, there are no moves on the chessboard.

The author was pleased to see her name in the White Knight’s poem today as she continued her Looking Glass odyssey.

I recently finished The Middle Ages: A Graphic History, one of the last books Dad gave me for my birthday (at my request). He appreciated the use of art as a way to tell a story; his interest in graphics began early with his enjoyment of, and later collection of, Classics Illustrated comics. (E.g., see blog post: https://tothineownselfbetrue.ca/2022/05/08/comic-book-day-in-e-town/)

The book is a lively romp across more than a thousand years of civilization. While I occasionally found the “who did what, where, and when” a bit confusing as we twisted through the central Europe-centric text, it was a delightful overview, and I learned a great deal. Eleanor Janega’s narrative is friendly, with an occasional dry wit, and Neil Max Emmanuel’s illustrations bring the stories to life with a touch of humour.

One of the most striking takeaways is how little civilization has truly changed since the 1500s, where the book leaves off. Themes of oppressed and mistreated minorities, wealth inequity, and the corruption of power, among many others, remain firmly embedded in modern society. Systemic reinforcement, it seems, is a powerful and enduring force…

Today it occurred to me we are living the last blessed days before encroachment and 100% saturation of AI. Although AI is rapidly seeping into nearly every facet of life, making significant inroads, it isn’t entirely endemic just yet. We are sitting low on the exponential curve and about to accelerate beyond the safety of any seatbelt, into a new world that no one can prepare for.

Enjoy these last days of independent thought in the connected world. Avatars will soon tell the news, and advertisements – actually, scratch that, entertainment – will be AI generated and personalized to every viewer, most creative works (music, writing, art) will lean heavily on or be entirely AI generated, and mass layoffs in every white collar field will lead to a massive collapse into an economic black hole.

Above, a delightful Alice in Wonderfland teacup set, previously gifted by Dad, complete with text from the story spiralling downward in the cup.

A strange chain of events “down the rabbit hole” sort of moment unfolded yesterday, the day before my birthday, and I feel compelled to share it. I haven’t had much chance to write lately, though I carry more thoughts than I have energy to express. Caregiving has left me emotionally spent, but meaningful moments continue to surface.

Recently, there have been moments that felt especially charged with meaning, such as being drawn to a particular page in a book I haven’t finished, or finding a tiny grey feather perfectly placed in my mom’s driveway while helping her with something Dad once handled. Again and again, when I follow my intuition, I’m led to coincidences that feel almost impossible to dismiss.

(Below, the latest feather, from this past Saturday, still drying out from laying in melting snow)

Two hundred fifty-four days ago I downloaded the Finch app to thoughtfully include brief pauses in my caregiver-heavy days to breathe. It encourages positive self-care habits by offering simple rewards to dress your finch or decorate his home. My tasks range from mindfully relaxing my jaw twice a day to saying one kind thing to myself, the way a friend would. One of my daily tasks is simply “literally survive the day.” It sounds like a free square on a bingo card, but it isn’t trivial. Each night when I check that box, I exhale in relief and quiet amazement that I made it through again. Every month offers a new theme, sometimes with a story that unfolds day by day. As February began, the theme was “Queen of Hearts,” inspired by Alice in Wonderland. In the eight months I’ve used the app, this was the first theme rooted in literature. Most months feature lighter concepts like enchanted libraries, pool house parties, or café houses.

On the morning of February 9th, I opened the app briefly to record completed goals, and my thoughts immediately drifted to a birthday present Mom had passed along last year from Dad. Ever the planner, Dad set aside special treasures labeled with Post-it notes for future occasions. Inside were two older books, Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass. I knew they were meant to carry meaning, even though Dad hadn’t had the chance to include his usual explanatory note.

Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass were the first lengthy literary works Dad introduced to me when my reading skills were just beginning to take off. I read them in grade two, not fully understanding what I held, but captivated all the same. I remember Dad proudly telling his fellow writer Glenn Kirkland and his teacher friends that I had finished such a complex book at that age.

Seeing those older copies last year, complete with the tell-tale Post-it note and notation “H from D”, was too much for my raw heart. I set the books aside with other dear artefacts of Dad, alongside my growing collection of feathers.

Yesterday my heart pulled me back to them. I went upstairs, dusted them off, and sat down on the couch, wanting quiet time to absorb Dad’s gift. A brief caregiving interruption followed, but I returned determined to take the moment. I settled in and studied the two matching, well-worn hardcovers. I set aside the book with the Post-it note and held Alice in Wonderland in my hand. The title appeared only on the spine, with no title on the front, which felt unusual.

I opened the book and turned to the publication page, searching for clues about why Dad chose this edition. 1946. The books were republished long before Dad was born. Curious, I searched online for what made this version special. I learned it was a notable 1946 release featuring John Tenniel’s iconic illustrations, originally carved on woodblocks, a style Dad loved, and colored by Fritz Kredel. It is considered the definitive color edition and is prized by collectors. The slipcover explained the missing front title. Dad clearly wanted me to rediscover this story through a new visual lens.

I returned to the story and turned the page, only to find a poem laid out in stanzas. I didn’t remember the book beginning this way. I began to read.

All in the golden afternoon

   Full leisurely we glide;

For both our oars, with little skill,

   By little hands are plied,

While little hands make vain pretence

   Our wanderings to guide.

I sat with those words, letting them settle, and felt invited to continue.

Ah, cruel Three! In such an hour,

   Beneath such dreamy weather,

To beg a tale of breath too weak

  To stir the tiniest…

My breath caught.

feather.

I closed the book. I knew the search was over. Dad had led me to what I was meant to find, the day before my birthday, in a book he set aside for me in the spring of 2024. Thank you Dad, for your gift…

(The feather motif has been a meaningful topic of many previous blog entries (and some as yet unwrit.) For context please search feather in previous posts).

With the latest news release, Alberta government is celebrating 75 years of Alberta being rat free, but I’d argue the biggest rats of all are sitting in the legislature these days.

I wanted to mark this day in some memorable way… A year ago today was Dad’s Celebration of Life and afterward we laid him to rest with roses at his grave. My heart urged me to post this poem, and audio recording of a reading by Dad- please meditate on its beautiful words and enjoy. ❤️

Death Is Nothing At All

Death is nothing at all.
It does not count.
I have only slipped away into the next room.
Nothing has happened.

Everything remains exactly as it was.
I am I, and you are you,
and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged.
Whatever we were to each other, that we are still.

Call me by the old familiar name.
Speak of me in the easy way which you always used to.
Put no difference into your tone.
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.

Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together.
Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.
Let my name be ever the household word that it always was.
Let it be spoken without an effort, without the ghost of a shadow upon it.

Life means all that it ever meant.
It is the same as it ever was.
There is absolute and unbroken continuity.
What is this death but a negligible accident?

Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight?
I am but waiting for you, for an interval, 
somewhere very near, 
just around the corner.

All is well.
Nothing is hurt; nothing is lost.
One brief moment and all will be as it was before.
How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!

-Canon Henry Scott-Holland, Canon of St Paul’s Cathedral (1847-1918_

(1910, from sermon “The King of Terrors”, read while body of King Edward VII was lying in state at Westminster)

How I ache
To climb your leafy rungs
Heading skyward into azure possibility

But I remain grounded today
Paying plumber bills and waiting for unreaponsive banks