Crossing the minefield

If you have secured shelter, food, companionship and personal safety for yourself —and you are unlikely to lose any of these in the foreseeable future —there is only one thing left to accomplish, in life. Once you are stable and secure, you are free to focus on personal growth.

How far can you go? No one knows. You have no competition except your former self. You are on a personal journey with an utterly unique trajectory. In time you can become something incredible and irreplicable. A version of yourself that is many times better than the previous versions!

Yet anyone who has ever tried to improve themselves knows that the road is fraught with challenges and setbacks. I call this a “minefield” because the challenges and setbacks do not merely constitute inconvenient delays. Unfortunately, the challenges we meet on the road to developing ourselves can be discouraging, dangerous and sometimes life-threatening.

This is because it is impossible to grow without the help and influence of others. Any skill, ability we wish to develop relies in part on the validation and feedback of others. When our interactions with others are positive we bloom like healthy plants, but when our interactions with others are largely toxic, we wilt and become despondent.

I believe that it is dangerous to give others too much power over our lives. While on our journey, we all need encouragement, advice and guidance, but we must be super careful not to allow people with other agendas to dissuade us from our personal path. No one knows what should become of each of us. No one can know because each of us is called to a unique life.

But isn’t using the metaphor of a minefield a tad hyperbolic? No. Unfortunately, some people are willing to destroy us if it gets them some measure of success or satisfaction in the short term. It’s not so much that the world is full of evil that we have to guard against. More likely, the world is filled with people who are afraid that their own needs will not be met. And people who are afraid for themselves have precious little to offer those of us who want to grow.

This is why it is dangerous to open yourself up unconditionally to the guidance of others. By offering wrong advice or by repeatedly doubting your chosen path, even well-meaning individuals can set you back for years.

And it’s not just about a career choice or pursuing a lifelong dream. The judgments we are exposed to as we grow up can affect us negatively in all areas. If we are not careful, our confidence, our skillset and our character growth can be irreparably damaged in the process.

What to do?

You have to proceed with caution. There are many people who want to help you succeed. These are the people you have to find and open up to. These are the people who will help you become all that you can be.

Everyone else should be ignored. Be polite, but ignore those who do not have your best interests at heart. Your inner voice and intuition need your undivided attention. You have places to discover and a wonderful life to experience!

Fear, our friend and mentor

With some justification, fear enjoys a bad rep in our lives. There is probably nothing more pathetic than to see a fellow human gripped by fear. Is anything else more paralyzing? And more capable of extinguishing all hope and joy?

Yet a closer look suggests that fear can play different roles at different times in our lives. I submit that over time, fear can turn from a potential tyrant into a genuine friend. In our life journey and quest for truth, fear becomes the best mentor that we can have.

Let me explain.

When we are young, feelings of fear have a practical purpose. As uncomfortable as it is to feel afraid, in the early stages of our lives it is a feeling that leads us away from possible danger towards safety. Fear teaches us to pay attention, change course or do something altogether different than what we are about to do. In this way, fear faithfully steers us away from harm.

As children we learn to respect fear, but because of our inexperience, we are also vulnerable to fear’s terrible tyranny. There are many times in our development where fear grips us irrationally and we are suddenly thrust into psychological turmoil. When this happens fear can dominate our emotions and paralyze our intentions, forcing us into exaggerated caution and rampant inhibition.

Eventually we discover the exact line where rational fear can cross into irrational thoughts. Through trial and error and life’s many challenges, we learn to guard ourselves consistently against crossing this boundary.

Well-adjusted adults hear the voice of fear but balance it with what is reasonable. The likelihood of an event actually taking place, the experience of others coupled with our life experiences —these shield us from impulsive obedience to fear. Healthy adults hear the messages from their “fear radar,” but they do not automatically accept the accompanying instructions that would readily enslave them.*

So far, I am not saying anything that isn’t obvious to the majority of us. But what I have found is that, as one enters the later stages of life, fear begins to play a different role.

As we grow older and come to terms with our mortality, we embrace honesty and authenticity. We no longer waste enormous energy to hide embarrassing imperfections and flaws. Bravely, we examine our lives and acknowledge the warts we see. Armed with confidence and experience, we are now able to accept the truth about ourselves.

It is at this very time that fear begins to act differently in our lives. No longer warning us about possible dangers, fear actually begins to point us in the direction that we should go.

Contrary to my experiences in my youth,** now the very things I am afraid of doing are the things I need to do. A phone call, a visit, offering an apology, extending myself to others in some way —all of which threaten my comfort level— are the very things I have to consider and act upon.

When a thought that is wrapped in fear runs through my head, I now want to investigate it further. There is a real possibility that if fear is associated with it, the thing I would naturally avoid offers me an opportunity for personal growth.

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*I would argue that an individual demonstrates maturity when she understands definitively that the thoughts that run through her mind are not actually her. The mind acts like a raging river. We are not our thoughts and feelings until we decide to appropriate them.

**Obviously, when we are young there can be times where we have to overcome our fears and do something that is uncomfortable, but I submit that it takes an entire life to gain the confidence to seek out deliberately what we fear and see where this road leads. Young people can do it, but only inconsistently.

Celebrate your weirdness

I have some good news and some bad news. The good news is positive and perhaps encouraging to all of us. This good news, I submit, might help us preserve our dignity and worth in our galaxy. It helps us celebrate ourselves as unique beings.

The bad news, on the other hand, is shocking and disturbing —provoking anger and, for a time, even personal despair.

Let’s start with the bad news.

I believe I have discovered something utterly unsettling and frankly demoralizing about myself. My studies, life experience and the testimony of others have caused me to accept an incontrovertible fact. Namely, the surprising realization that I, Marzio Manderioli, have very little to be proud about and virtually nothing that I can take credit for, in my life. Absolutely nothing.

It has come to my attention that I can’t claim to be unique or outstanding in any way. The very things that I would point to in order to prove my uniqueness and specialness on this earth, have been acquired either genetically or socially and environmentally. To think of any of my talents and abilities as my own doing is a mere delusion. Virtually all that I am I have received from another source.

My spiritual sensibilities? Witnessed in others and appropriated. My political leanings? Inherited from my family and influenced by university professors and stubborn friends. My sense of humour? Nicked it from my mother, brother and aunt. My ability to draw? I learned to draw from my father and watched my brother excel at it. I also have a cousin in Italy who is a superb painter and art teacher.

My sense of fashion? Call it “frugal Bohemian” but largely an imitation of my peers and a response to ubiquitous marketing. My morality and principled living? Catholic and Protestant inculcation thrown in with some parental spice. My altruistic tendency? Learned and coerced over decades of parental and societal pounding. My flair and zest for living? A carbon copy of my mother, aunt and their cousin. My love for music and musical talent? Largely a response to the enthusiasm of my immediate family and the examples of accomplished musicians in our family tree. My honesty and sense of fairness? Stolen from my father. My cheerful disposition and good manners? Blame dad and a host of relatives.

This list is virtually endless. At every turn I find a terrible, disappointing truth: everything about me can be explained or linked to biology, genetics, heredity and persistent socialization.

But what of my free will? Surely because I call the shots in my life, I am entitled to some recognition when I get things right? Apparently not. Current scientific findings appear to disprove that human beings have a free will at all. Activity in the brain normally connected to a particular decision or behaviour has been detected seconds, perhaps minutes, before an individual considers and acts out the behaviour. Scientific research now seems to support the notion that individuals do not actually have a free will as had been supposed.

This is tragic news indeed. My identity as an autonomous agent on this earth is an utter and complete sham. My life could be a proverbial ship afloat on the ocean, but I am not as much the captain as a deckhand or lowly crew member with little influence on the journey or the destination.

Wow. Okay, so what’s the good news?

The good news is that we humans can still claim a genuine uniqueness, if only in an indirect way.

We are not the authors of our talents and abilities. We are barely the architects of our own characters. But we are unique filters of experiences and we can respond to events and others in unpredictable and unprecedented ways.

So while it is correct to say that everything we are and do has been taught to us, given to us or is part of a genetic code, the sum of all our parts serves to make us into new “cosmic concoctions.” And we are completely distinct from one another. The galaxy has little hope of reproducing a perfect rendition of each one of us because the variables involved are patently infinite.

Like my mother, I love music, pistachio ice cream and avocadoes. But unlike my mother, I like some heavy metal rock and I worship the comedy of George Carlin. Like my father, I am principled, ethical and likely to keep my commitments, but unlike my father, I am a lapsed Roman Catholic and I distrust big government.

This list, it turns out, is also virtually endless. Let’s call it our personal weirdness. The ingredients that make up all of our lives have a predictable source and they follow known trajectories, but how they intersect, intertwine and influence each other results in something truly original.

I think that’s great news! I have little to be arrogant about because I am not the origin of anything. But I can celebrate myself because I have become something that is unlikely to be repeated, ever! I am a genuine and utterly unique weirdo. So are you. So is everyone.

Remember the famous bar scene in Star Wars, where all manner of creatures was present?

Yup, that’s us! Let’s have a drink and celebrate!

Leaving the dream

Now that I’m 64, I only have two basic priorities in life. One, to do my best to get that Beatles song out of my head whenever possible. It’s uncanny how the song pops into my brain at the most inopportune of times…

The other more pressing priority is to live life as most authentically as I can. That is, to live life honestly without pre-judging people and experiences. To refuse to live a life gripped by fear, and to accept my limitations. To release everyone around me (and myself too) from my preposterous demands and absurd expectations.

There is a fellow I know who, when asked how his life is going, trots out the standard reply, “I’m living the dream.” Obviously there is abundant sarcasm in his tone, but I’m going to suggest that my goal is to do the exact opposite.

My goal in life is to “leave the dream.”

By dream I mean all of the experiences, beliefs and events in my life that keep me asleep or in a perpetually-passive state —bumbling along perhaps as an obedient consumer, a blind conformist, a creature of comfort and convenience, regardless of how I might hurt others or compound problems in the process. The dream is largely someone else’s idea for what my life should be. This dream is designed to help me avoid my personal reality.

More specifically, the dream is everything in life that keeps me from understanding the predicament I am in.

And what is, exactly, my predicament? To be blunt, it’s that I am going to die.

In contrast, I want to be clear-eyed and awake. I want to live life out meaningfully. I want my life to count but not in the sense that I shall be remembered for a lasting legacy or for my mark on history. Both of these seem hollow and empty objectives for one’s life.

I just want to reach my life’s conclusion with the knowledge that I made “enough waves” so as to taste what it really means to live. I am tired of telling others that life is a gift that should not be wasted. I want to know it fully for myself. I want to experience the awe and magic of being alive —right down to my bone marrow. And I’m prepared to feel the fear of losing it, if it will help me live more vividly.

I used to pity anyone who understood that their lives were about to end. Such psychological torment! Prisoners on death row, 9/11 victims inside the towers about to collapse, passengers on a crashing plane, etc. —anyone aware that their death was imminent had my absolute sympathy.

But how idiotic! How could I pity them when I am exactly in the same circumstance? Regardless of what I care to believe about my life, the truth is that I could die at any moment. Every experience, every day, could be my last.

At least 3/4 of my life has already come and gone.

What will I do with the remainder?

Armed with the clear knowledge that one day I will be no more, I will set out to live life to the fullest.

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* Here is a fantastic book I recommend to everyone:

Four Thousand Weeks: Time Management for Mortals by Oliver Burkeman

Our most basic addiction

Full disclosure: I find it irritating when a person claims that “everything in life happens for a reason.” That everything in life is part of an ongoing narrative designed to teach us and guide us towards what is wholesome and true. As if what happens to us and around us—while mystifying and perhaps dangerous in real time— were part of some perfect, elegant plan.

I find this notion troubling because it ignores what I have come to believe makes up the largest part of our lives. The part of our lives that can only be explained by chance, coincidence and randomness.

Does everything happen for a reason? Yes, if we are thinking of plain cause and effect. But does everything happen for our education, or for our present or eventual personal benefit?

I don’t believe it does. This narrative is false.

Personal experience over several decades has taught me that “romanticizing life” —while super enjoyable and entertaining in spots —has disastrous consequences in the long run. When I was younger I was convinced that there was only one perfect mate for each one of us. I thought it was Providence that led me to a location, a dream job or a special person. It was great fun to see myself as an important agent in the universe who had been picked for important and privileged tasks. And it was reassuring and a balm to my fear of the unknown to think that everything in life was under control. A benevolent cosmic authority was at work. All would become clear and make sense in due time.

I was wrong. I was hasty to assign design and intention to every facet of my life.

My defence? Youth and inexperience, of course, but also an alarming self-centredness. And a stubborn addiction to stories.

A quick look around the planet suggests that the vast majority of incidents transpire out of sheer randomness. At all turns we can witness people act irrationally. Stupid people are given fantastic opportunities to squander. Rich people are given more riches while others remain without. People start wars and hoard food to the detriment of millions. Millions die with unfulfilled dreams. Good people die young. Healthy people are stricken with cruel diseases. Cautious people are devastated by calamity. Most people go to their grave before gaining a deep understanding of their lives.

In addition, the planet itself is full of surprises. Weather patterns, geological catastrophes, the threat of animals attacking us, etc. are real and constant challenges.

I submit that we need to “wake up and smell the coffee.” There does not seem to be a benevolent cosmic authority who polices our playground to keep us safe and happy. To date, objective efforts to identify such an entity who could make sense of the daily madness we experience on planet earth have been futile.

Yet human beings still cling to narratives. Before stumbling into the more publicized addictions of substance abuse or deviant behaviour, people become slaves to stories they inherit and invent. Stories allure us with hope. They give us the illusion that life is linear. Some narratives promise salvation from hardship and they guarantee immortality.

I don’t blame others for falling into this addiction. I myself am a recovering romantic and refuse to cast stones. But I do ask that you look at the hard evidence and change tack. An authentic life will be your reward.

Stories are fun and they help us pass the time, but they can be as addictive as crack cocaine. They too can leave us heart-broken and irreparably damaged.

The gift that is unfinished business (Copy)

Most of us who have reached our sixth decade are well aware of the things that prolong our lives. Vitamins, supplements, stretching, aerobic exercise, deep sleep, positive thinking, turmeric, meditation, cutting ties with toxic people, avoiding the negativity and depression of news stories, walking outdoors, good digestion and healthy bowel movements, avoiding extended periods of direct sunlight to spare our skin, a vibrant sex life, etc. —the list is virtually infinite.

Yet it is my view that high on the list of items that foster our longevity should be the contribution of unfinished business. I believe that our lives are naturally prolonged when they contain a genuine and specific purpose. The grim reaper appears ruthless when it’s our time to go, save in one regard. He seems to respect our need to complete tasks and reach milestones. He is willing to wait a little for us to get our things in order.

I was blessed to have a father who never seemed to run out of things to do. He worked until he was 77 and he retired with a desire to focus on his garden and fruit trees around his home. True to the Italian stereotype, within a few months of his retirement, my father had every square inch of land around our house planted with something. He worked in his garden at least 4-5 hours a day until he was in his nineties.

My father started cross country skiing in his late seventies and he loved to take long walks. At home he would fill his time with reading and watching soccer on TV. He loved sharing an espresso with relatives and always had time for a funny story or joke.

Strangely, he approached all tasks with a similar enthusiasm and energy. He seemed equally happy polishing his shoes, picking vegetables or dancing at the Canadian-Italian Club.

I cannot remember my father having ever complained about being bored. Ever.

Was my father’s life a perfect model for me to follow? Hardly. In time, I saw that while my father loved to “get things done,” he had difficulty relaxing and just being himself. Sometimes he resented an extended social visit with a neighbour because it made him feel unproductive in some way. There seemed to be a clock ticking in the background, whenever dad was around. He could be cold and utilitarian with his sons and wife.

No doubt, much of my father’s MO and attitude could be linked to his military training and terrible experiences during the war. Having seen the very worst of human nature and experiencing the untimely death of many comrades, he understood that time was short and that life demanded action.

Still, I cannot help but notice that my father’s approach to life was ultimately wise. He loved to set goals and strived to reach them. His life was purposeful until his very last breath.

My father lived to almost 100. His life was imperfect but it was long, full and rich.

I should be lucky if I could experience the same. And to that end, I have decided to embrace unfinished business as my life-long companion.

The gift that is unfinished business

Most of us who have reached our sixth decade are well aware of the things that prolong our lives. Vitamins, supplements, stretching, aerobic exercise, deep sleep, positive thinking, turmeric, meditation, cutting ties with toxic people, avoiding the negativity and depression of news stories, walking outdoors, good digestion and healthy bowel movements, avoiding extended periods of direct sunlight to spare our skin, a vibrant sex life, etc. —the list is virtually infinite.

Yet it is my view that high on the list of items that foster our longevity should be the contribution of unfinished business. I believe that our lives are naturally prolonged when they contain a genuine and specific purpose. The grim reaper appears ruthless when it’s our time to go, save in one regard. He seems to respect our need to complete tasks and reach milestones. He is willing to wait a little for us to get our things in order.

I was blessed to have a father who never seemed to run out of things to do. He worked until he was 77 and he retired with a desire to focus on his garden and fruit trees around his home. True to the Italian stereotype, within a few months of his retirement, my father had every square inch of land around our house planted with something. He worked in his garden at least 4-5 hours a day until he was in his nineties.

My father started cross country skiing in his late seventies and he loved to take long walks. At home he would fill his time with reading and watching soccer on TV. He loved sharing an espresso with relatives and always had time for a funny story or joke.

Strangely, he approached all tasks with a similar enthusiasm and energy. He seemed equally happy polishing his shoes, picking vegetables or dancing at the Canadian-Italian Club.

I cannot remember my father having ever complained about being bored. Ever.

Was my father’s life a perfect model for me to follow? Hardly. In time, I saw that while my father loved to “get things done,” he had difficulty relaxing and just being himself. Sometimes he resented an extended social visit with a neighbour because it made him feel unproductive in some way. There seemed to be a clock ticking in the background, whenever dad was around. He could be cold and utilitarian with his sons and wife.

No doubt, much of my father’s MO and attitude could be linked to his military training and terrible experiences during the war. Having seen the very worst of human nature and experiencing the untimely death of many comrades, he understood that time was short and that life demanded action.

Still, I cannot help but notice that my father’s approach to life was ultimately wise. He loved to set goals and strived to reach them. His life was purposeful until his very last breath.

My father lived to almost 100. His life was imperfect but it was long, full and rich.

I should be lucky if I could experience the same. And to that end, I have decided to embrace unfinished business as my life-long companion.

My story

I don’t know why, but I started doodling consistently from age 8 onward. I think it was mostly out of restlessness, but I do remember my parents encouraging me to draw. I think they appreciated that it kept me focused and quiet. My father loved precision and saw drawing as an important skill to develop. My brother was a terrific artist when in high school. He was a master of pastels, lighting and subtle, realistic lines. In grade 7, my teacher George Frye encouraged me to try my hand at simple animation. This was a project I meant to start but never did.

When drawing, I was always excited to see what picture would come out. I loved to draw quickly and with bold strokes. I didn’t have the patience to take my time and draw more realistically.

I took to cartooning because it offered me great freedom. Freedom from the rules that determined what was acceptable and “real art.”

I loved to draw hockey goalie pads. Old hockey pads were magical bags of leather and creases! I also enjoyed drawing drum sets with umpteen cymbals all around them. And I was visually mesmerized by submarines and jet fighter planes.

When I turned 12, I discovered the humour of odd magazines like MAD and Cracked. I loved the the artists’ freedom to lampoon anyone and anything. I especially loved the realism of Mort Drucker’s caricatures. His implied lines were powerful —a kind of magic that would make a person come to life in front of you.

My brother and I loved the cartoons on TV as well. My brother loved the voice of Foghorn Leghorn and I liked the southern drawl of Yosemite Sam and the passionate voices of the Flinstones characters. Quietly, I learned to draw Goofy and Donald Duck, too.

My mom was a born satirist. She had the curious habit of nicknaming anyone she met with just the most perfect moniker! For us, it was always a source of humour to name a person in this way and, in the same instant, be reminded of some characteristic or trait that the person exhibited.

In addition to fostering the value of humour, my parents encouraged my brother and me to read the newspaper and watch the daily news on TV. It was, therefore, natural for me to try my hand at political cartoons. My favourite political cartoonist was Andy Donato. Again, it was intoxicating to see how much freedom he enjoyed to say exactly what he wanted.

While at school, I would draw posters to promote an event or a student election. My friends would keep these posters and some would hang them inside their lockers for the duration of the school year.

When I turned 19, I drew caricatures at the Kelowna Regatta and I also sold my drawings at Orchard Park. Several people encouraged me to pursue this as a career, but I could not see how to make a living at it.

When I was 23 I drew cartoons of local politicians for the Capital News for 6 months. It was a cartoon per week and I remember that they paid $5 per drawing. Later, in 2011, I would draw 2-3 political cartoons per week for Castanet.net. I did this for 5 consecutive years and published over 600 political cartoons. It was during this time that I learned that political cartoons are closely monitored. The idea that they could depict absolutely any message is largely an illusion. The only reason MAD and Cracked could get away with it is because they had “lawyered up.”*

Emotionally, I would be up and down regarding my art. I either seemed to feel like a god whose work was beyond reproach or as someone who was a “poser,” with no real artistic skill at all.

In 1978 I worked at the truck plant, Western Star. There, my boss Steve Niemayer was friends with a Disney artist and when he went to L.A. for a holiday, he agreed to take some of my drawings and show them to him. When my boss came back from his vacation, he told me that, upon looking at my work, the artist simply said that I needed to go to school and take formal training. I was devastated by this but eventually enrolled in Commercial Art at Capilano College (now a university). While at College, the art teachers thought that my art was not good enough to sell. I could tell that they had a low opinion of caricatures as a legitimate art form.

A couple years later I enrolled at UBC and became a high school English teacher. My cartoons took a back seat for 26 years, but occasionally I would use cartooning to illustrate a point on the chalk board. I would also draw my colleagues for the staff room wall.

What can I tell you? Upon reflection, I can see that drawing cartoons has been a major part of my life. I don’t know why, exactly, but I still get pleasure from capturing someone’s likeness or depicting a humourous vignette.

My journey has been a difficult one. For many years I was riddled with doubt about whether I should pursue art as a career. In 2013, I retired from teaching and now pursue my art full time.

Occasionally, I still struggle to find my voice. The negative aspect of teaching high school is that it largely silenced my natural instinct for humorous commentary. The PC that thrives in a school district is lethal for those with alternative points of view.

But now there is no looking back. I have “arrived!” Watch out, New York and L.A! I’m coming for you on the tidal wave that is social media!

Cue in the same chopper that landed with the pop super group ABBA, all those years ago…..

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*Artists for MAD Magazine kept a low profile precisely because there were backlashes for their caricatures. In the seventies, newspapers wanted to provoke commentary so political cartoonists had some freedom to be scathing, but all of this has been lost due to PC thinking and subsequent libel suits.

My mother's piano

One of the greatest gifts my mother ever gave me is a deep appreciation for music. Wafting from our home were the sounds of diverse musicians virtually 24/7. One day it would be the Beatles spinning on our record player. Another day it might be Trini Lopez or a Beethoven sonata. Sometimes it would be music from South America or Greece, and at other times it would be Cat Stevens, Harry Belafonte, Neil Diamond or Frank Sinatra.

About Cat Stevens (if I may digress)….somehow or other my mom got wind that Cat had died in 1976. We mourned him like a brother for two days! Then we were embarrassed to find out that he had not died at all. Although, in my view, he did die a “death of sorts” when he converted to Islam. His tortured soul, brilliant musical gift and unique voice would soon be replaced with social conformity and moralistic musical projects.

To continue with today’s blog.

Mom especially loved the piano. The poverty she experienced during the war didn’t allow her to pursue her passion, but shortly after she married and had kids, she set out to expose us to the instrument. First up was my brother who was “persuaded” to take piano lessons while we lived in Italy. I remember how proud my mother was to tell others of my brother’s ability and talent. A few years later, after our family had moved to Canada, my parents forced me to start piano lessons, too. My brother by then had quit his lessons and was focusing on playing acoustic guitar. I actually wanted to play the drums but it was to no avail.

For about 4 years, I dutifully went to Wentworth Music to take piano lessons. I resented it so much that, during the winter, I would walk to the studio without gloves on, and upon my arrival, I would waste 10 minutes out of a precious half hour to thaw out my fingers. Because I practiced “intermittently” during the week between lessons, I never had the lesson ready and surely frustrated my gracious teacher, Hedi Wentworth.

When the lesson was over, I would calmly put my gloves on and walk home.

My mom finally had the confidence to take piano lessons herself, at age 65. First, she took lessons from our neighbour, Joy Oxenham, and then studied with wonderful Lora Strom at Wentworth Music.

My mom never did get proficient at the piano, but for her it was enough to be involved and play the instrument somewhat. Today I play the drums and my brother plays guitar (and some piano), but an interesting thing happened shortly before my mother passed.

On her death bed, my mother asked me to promise her that, before selling the piano, I would have my son take at least two piano lessons. You know, just to see if he would like it……

I was not thrilled by this request because I had already made plans to be rid of it.

Well, wouldn’t you know it —my son started lessons with Lynda Nishi and took to the instrument like a duck to water! Eventually, Jordan not only liked the instrument, but became a valuable member of Sheila French’s Jazz program at KSS and now he plays piano professionally on the Coast.

And what happened to my mom’s piano? Well it’s still in our basement, waiting to be played whenever Jordan comes home to visit us.

Thank you for this gift, mom!

The blight of scarcity thinking

Perhaps the worst idea that humanity has adopted over several millenia, is the idea that there is not enough to go around. Scarcity thinking is behind a lot of injustice and terror on planet earth. It has long been a principal excuse to mistreat and oppress others. It is the main cause of crippling poverty, prejudice and exclusion.

From the moment we are born, we are taught to think in terms of scarcity. We are conditioned to believe that there is never enough of anything. Food, clean water, clean air, land, resources, ideas, talents, skills, potential mates —even God’s love—all are, supposedly, in short supply.

It’s as if it were our destiny that what we value should always be scarce in this world.

And in every facet of life we feel a pressure to respond to the crisis that scarcity triggers. Not enough land with coveted resources? Invade someone else’s territory. Not enough potential mates? Compete with impunity to get yours. Have an idea that might evolve into a thriving business? Guard it with your life. Want to get wealthy? Convince others that they need a commodity that only you can provide.

Yet scarcity thinking is easily disproved. Upon reflection, it is quite easy to see that we all have inherited a great gift. Our planet is wonderfully resilient and abundant with anything we need to succeed and thrive. There is no shortage of sunlight, oxygen and the umpteen chemical reactions that promote and sustain life. There is no actual shortage of food and fresh water. Our intellect and shared experience, together with the earth’s rich resources, give us more than enough to succeed as a species.

The key? We only have to share with others and work together for the good of all.

One of the true benefits of enduring a world-wide pandemic is the happy discovery that there is in fact an abundance of everything if we but only share. A good example is the collaboration of many countries to bring us a fast and reliable vaccine against the Covid virus in record time. Is there anything that we cannot do if we but work together and share our resources and expertise?

Scientists tell us that the earth can produce more than enough food to go around. There is fresh water for all beings. There is plenty of space for all of us. Our technology, human resolve and ingenuity can solve most any problems that we encounter.

If we take care of it, our planet can last indefinitely and be a wonderful home for humans and animals alike. If we take care of each other, we can see ourselves through any tragedy and crisis.

I submit that, as good as life on our planet currently is, it could be so much better if we discarded scarcity thinking in favour of what is true.

And what is actually true?

That this “blue ball” in our galaxy is a veritable paradise —offering all beings a rich and magically-beautiful life.

My dog from outer space

Like so many of my friends, I am also the proud owner of a dog. And yes, I do regard him as a precious companion. But the reasons for loving my dog the way I do may surprise you.

Allow me to summarize my dog’s actual character traits and behaviours.

To start, he is not cute and cuddly. While genetically blessed to make young girls, young boys and middle-aged women sigh with delight (he is part Cairn Terrier and part Yorky), he is far from lovely. He growls at everyone on the street and will assault guests inside my home. His MO is to look approachable and then lunge forward to bite you. A real charmer.

He is also not particularly loyal. If he gets wind that an immediate treat is not forthcoming, he will ignore me without remorse. A master manipulator, my pooch can create more guilt than my Italian grandmother.

He eats home cooked dog meals and is walked 4 times a day. His daily naps are on average 60 minutes in length and he takes these on any one of his 4 beds around the house. Between meals he expects to find hidden treats throughout our home. Can we say sense of entitlement?

Yet in spite of the royal treatment he receives, he remains deeply insecure. If I should leave the house for more than 5 minutes, he howls like a narc at a hells angel party. (No doubt our neighbours suspect I beat him on a regular basis.) He seems to need the kind of desperate reassurance I longed for when I attended junior high.

Further, he seems to have a death wish. When out on our walks, he wants to scrap with dogs twice his size. He will lunge into oncoming traffic when possessed by a mysterious whim. I spend considerable time each day protecting this dog from his suicidal tendencies.

And his bedside manner? He will reject me in seconds flat if he catches a whiff of an appealing scent or hears a mysterious sound. He will urinate on anything mildly intriguing or objectionable. For mere amusement, he passes wind on unsuspecting citizens and bullies other animals in the neighbourhood.

Turth be told, I think this dog is holding me and my family hostage.

There is no question that if he were human, my dog would soon do hard time. Society would not tolerate his erratic and self-absorbed behaviour for very long.

So why do I put up with this alien creature from outer space?

Because he’s the most intriguing person I have ever met. His personality and character flaws make him utterly fascinating to me.

Mostly, however, I envy his freedom from decorum and anything else that would enslave him. I love him because he does not apologize for being himself.

I even admire him because he is more honourable than me. I fret about public opinion, but he does not strive to hide his weaknesses and shortcomings from others.

Will I be devastated when he passes?

And then some.

Quite frankly, he’s the most decent human being I know.

We are all sex addicts

First off, my apology to those who clicked on this blog in hopes of learning about a “51st shade of grey.” I have a point I want to raise about this subject, but I will not be graphic. I have few friends as it is and cannot afford to offend any.

My thought? It is my observation that we are accompanied by an active libido our entire lives.

That’s it. Bada boom boom, bada bing.

Why the big deal? Because this runs counter to our society’s narrative.

Through our movies, literature and music, we are told that there are approximately two decades of life where we should celebrate our sexual awakening and power. For the rest of our lives, apparently, we are suppposed to act as if our libido had disappeared. (Rock stars and those with arrested development are clearly allowed more latitude)

Somewhere around our early teens, so the story goes, we awaken from a life of innocence and move into a life of sexual experience. Our culture permits us to celebrate this personal transformation and enjoy it but only for a limited time.

Apparently, all of it comes to a crashing halt when we hit our thirties. It’s as if as a species we just move on to other interests. Really? WTF?

Clearly our culture is being less than forthright about what is really going on in our communities. The existence of a global pornography industry worth billions of dollars, literally millions of sex sites on the internet, sex therapists and lingerie shops, escort agencies, red light districts and strip clubs —all would suggest that sex is at the forefront of many people’s minds and for a much longer period than 20 years. It’s just that we are supposed to act like it isn’t.

And that’s the point I want to make. Young people everywhere need to move past their psychological gag reflex and accept that older people still like to get jiggy.

Let’s suppose that having sex were akin to eating a loaf of bread. I am not saying that octogenarians fantasize daily about consuming baguettes and fondling ciabatta buns. I am only saying that even at that age, their minds never stray too far from “the bakery.”

Everyone is hard wired in this way. In fact, our ability to feel desire seems to accompany us to the grave.

Let me leave you with two examples from my parental file.

My mom passed away after a lengthy battle with dementia. At age 87, shortly before she passed, she no longer recognized family members but one day, while we visited her in the nursing home, she confessed that a gentleman at the same nursing home wanted to marry her. As she spoke, her face seemed to blush like a schoolgirl’s at her first dance! To our horror, she then leaned in and whispered her plans to have the gentleman’s baby.

My father ended up in a nursing home as well and he lived to almost 100. One day I was visiting him and saw him flirting with a young nurse in a tightly clad uniform. His eyes lit up and —shockingly— he reached for the young lady while she strutted by. He was 98. Clearly he wasn’t dead, yet!

“Bottom” line. Young people assume that the rest of us are sexually retired after a glorious but short period of adulthood, but it just isn’t true.

Let’s call our ongoing sexuality just one of the many surprises that young people will encounter when they reach middle age.

Choosing a Persona Wardrobe

One of the luxuries of growing older is that you can reflect on the past with some clarity. Or at least you can reflect on the past. The clarity, of course, is a matter of opinion.

Something that struck me recently is that I have lived my life behind a series of personas.

The term persona in Latin referred to a mask, not unlike what an actor would wear on the stage.

In my life, a persona was what I wanted others to see and believe about me. You could call it lying to others, but it was more complicated than that. I also believed the persona I adopted. I saw myself through the same lens that others saw me through.

Shortly after birth and right into my teenage years, I saw myself mostly as a victim. A victim of circumstance, a victim of situations, of fate, of others —and definitely of my parents!

I remember feeling daily that life was not fair. It was harder than I thought it should be. People seemed cruel and indifferent. Somehow, I had not managed to impress them enough to become the center of their attention on a consistent basis. Nearly everything calamitous appeared to be happening to me. Others seemed to be spared a similar fate.

As the years passed and I grew into a gainfully-employed member of society, my victim persona morphed into a martyr persona. Now I was a “sophisticated” victim. I felt hard done by, but my suffering took on a higher purpose. In due time, I told myself, God and others would recognize my willingness to serve and endure.

As I grew older and more experienced, I developed skills that I could use to help others. My martyr persona then gave way to a hero persona. I could save the day! People could come to me for anything: advice, help, encouragement, expertise, etc.

Eventually I went from hero to seeing myself as a saint —blameless and beyond reproach in every way. (This made me rather inflexible and arrogant, unfortunately)

Further on into my fifth decade of life, it became difficult to believe anything about myself with certainty. The many off ramps and twists and turns that my life had taken had clouded my view.

Metaphorically, my life now was a car engine in serious stages of disrepair. A series of parts strewn on a garage floor and me not knowing how to assemble them together again.

So who am I, really?

Today I see myself as a beginner in most things. I try to approach life without expectations or judgements. I strive to accept whatever outcomes I experience.

Thankfully, some wisdom does accompany old age.

It feels good not to be the centre of things, and to not control my own life story. For the most part, I can laugh at the “wardrobe of personas” I wore and eventually discarded.

In short, I’m finally learning to enjoy the ride.

My current goal? To be like that dog looking outside the car window whose main concern is to enjoy the view and dream about his next treat.

Wish me luck. The “dog persona” seems to hold a lot of promise!

Women and boots

This is a different type of blog for me. I have no clear perspective on a particular issue. Instead, I present a mere observation.

There is no intent to insult anyone here and I have no explanation for the phenomenon I discuss. Just something I have noticed —nothing more.

My observation? That modern women enjoy wearing boots of all types.

Not western boots that both men and women appear to enjoy equally throughout North America. I’m referring to boots that look historical, equestrian — even military.

Consistently, in our society, women wear boots as a reliable and stylish accessory to complete their outfits.

For some reason, men do not do the same. There are work boots, of course, and many boots designed for specific tasks, but men on the whole do not wear boots as fashion very often.

Women, conversely, seem to wear them a lot.

I have watched women strut in their boots and noted the confidence that such a wardrobe choice imbues.

Historically, the wearing of boots is associated with authority figures.

Are women trying to tell us something with this choice of shoe? Could this be an unconscious or even deliberate response to being treated as second class citizens for much of history?

I don’t know.

Boots are a practical choice. They protect from the elements and are comfortable in most kinds of terrain.

Boots are also elegant. Perhaps more than other kinds of shoes, boots can evoke emotions and nostalgia for other epochs.

There is no question that the perfect pair of boots can enhance a person’s fashion statement immensely.

Since Nancy Sinatra’s classic sixties hit “These boots are made for walking,” women everywhere have adopted this footwear in increasing numbers.

We jokingly state that “men wear the pants in the family,” but it is my observation that women tend to wear the boots.

Why I love rock 'n' roll

Now that I am in my sixties, I am surprised that I still listen passionately and reverently to the music of my youth. Surprised because throughout my life I’ve also listened to other types of music that were clearly superior on a technical level.

Yet I still find myself drawn to rock music because its beautiful elements are well, timeless.

Rock is the ultimate refuge for musical castaways.

Let me explain.

When I first heard the pulsating rhythms of rock and simple (often melodramatic) melodies and hooks, I was captivated and even inspired. I felt welcome because I did not have to know music or technique or even taste.

I was instantly at home in a musical world that appealed to my emotions but did not demand any musical knowledge per se. And I could participate and play and sing or just rock out as a consumer of the genre.

Don’t have perfect pitch? There is room for you in rock. Can’t understand time signatures, notation and musical nuances? Rock doesn’t care. Only know 4.5 chords? That is all you really need. Can’t sing harmony to save your life? Who cares — just turn up the volume and feel the vibrations deep in your soul!

Rock music invites an “imperfect you” to make noise alongside others and simply celebrate the fact that you are alive. Feel the blood in your veins, the air in your lungs, the power of your limbs, the sexiness of your body!

Simply put, there is room for everyone in rock and roll.

Rock music accepts the downtrodden and wounded. It gives you shelter from life’s storms. When everyone hates and rejects you, rock music extends the hand of friendship and welcomes you.

That, my friends, is the ultimate “musical democracy.” *

It is also the secret behind rock’s longevity.

Precision and perfection be damned. There will always be a place for spontaneity and verve in the world of rock and roll.

My favourite rock lyric from Chuck Berry?

“Roll over Beethoven and tell Tchaikovsky the news!”

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*Sure, there are narcissistic, musical snobs in rock too, but at its very core rock is earthy and inclusive. The ultimate community art form!

Bring back the gatekeepers?

If I were to use one word to describe the current world I live in I would use the word chaotic. I think this word captures modern society very well. We seem to be in a constant state of chaos. Our authority figures are not respected or trusted. We have become a law and a frame of reference for everything unto ourselves.

While all of us welcomed the new freedoms and power that this new world and its technology first ushered in, the resulting confusion has been difficult to navigate. And we are all working harder than ever to keep up with the current pace of our society.

There was a time when gatekeepers were respected because their expertise had been hard-earned. That was the time when things were orderly. You were not an expert in most things but you could find someone who was and she would help you with your problem.*

In the course of your lifetime, you were not expected to do everything yourself. You might become an expert in a couple of areas, but you could then turn to gatekeepers to help you out with other issues.

Fast forward to the world in 2022 and things have really changed.

In place of gatekeepers are the Youtube channel and social media where opinions and ideas are shared at lightning speed. Literally anything we want to know -need to know- is on the internet for us to find. And there is a hidden pressure to become all things unto all people.

To be honest, I miss the time when our roles were clear and we all moved at a slower pace.

It’s wonderful that you can watch a couple videos and learn how to do something so as to not rely on a trained professional who wants to be paid for his expertise. But as a model for how to live, the current trend of doing it all yourself is just exhausting.

In the old days, you prepared a specific skill set to a high standard in order to earn a living. Your expertise became a valuable resource in your community. There was more time for leisure because you would rely on others to help you with the things you could not do yourself.

I submit that it was a wiser way to live. The different skill sets that individuals possessed would be celebrated, too. Each of us could contribute something unique to society.

*The old marketing model: buy our current product because it will help you do the task you want to do to a higher standard. You will be close to the professionals!

The new marketing: buy our product or watch our videos and instantly be as good at anything as those who have trained for years! My thought? This is absolute nonsense! And to live this way is exhausting!

The top down dilemma

I submit that everyone has trouble taking advice or instruction from a superior. I would even add that it is likely impossible to have a full and fair relationship with a superior.

When I was a high school teacher, a colleague once joked to me that teaching teens was relatively easy. “Find out what they want to do and tell them to do it!” he quipped. I laughed when I heard this because it was a reminder that teaching was indeed difficult work. Why? Because students take issue with your authority over them. They sabotage your plans and resist your direction.

Parenting too is challenging work and for the same reason. Young people intrinsically want to run before they can walk but parents struggle to let go of the reins and accept their kids as equal peers.

For relationships to flourish, however, they must be based on an equal footing. Friendships rely on reciprocity and respect; they will crumble in the face of a power imbalance and unaddressed wrongs.

For teachers and parents, a top down approach to their students and children respectively may work as a temporary measure. Young people need time before they can fully take charge of their lives and adults can guide and guard them while they mature. But as a long term strategy, the top down approach runs counter to any lasting relationship.

When we consider the current indigenous crisis in our country, it is evident that much of the problem lies with the fact that the colonizer’s relationship with indigenous people continues to be top down. Say all you want about reconciliation and offering moneys and support for social issues. What needs to change is how whites see our indigenous, and how they relate to them.

Consider the following. Today in Canada indigenous people enjoy extensive social support and some economic advantages (lower taxation, cheaper goods and reduced university tuition as a few examples) but they have to ask for basic funding for amenities. They plead daily for fairness and justice.They experience constant discrimination. Some indigenous people are still waiting to have drinking water on their land!

The fact that indigenous people have to canvas the Crown-Indigenous Relations & Northern Affairs Department and another department called Indigenous Services (the departments that have replaced the former Department of Indian Affairs) in order to receive basic services that are automatically extended to all Canadians points to this problem. The fact that these two departments even exist is the very heart of it. The current government of Canada continues to have the upper hand in its relationship with our indigenous.

In my view, the funding and support that indigenous people have received thus far are designed to muddy the waters and hide a terrible truth: Canada’s indigenous are still not free. They are, in actuality, our unofficial second class citizens.

Recently all levels of government have made overtures towards Canada’s indigenous as a way to say sorry for the genocide perpetrated by our residential schools. Across our country, more indigenous people are appearing in positions of power among municipal, provincial and federal jurisdictions. A couple months ago, an indigenous person was appointed the Governor General of our country!

The increasing presence of indigenous people in positions of authority is looked upon as social progress. In particular, the appointment of the new governor general was greeted with joy by many Canadians because it seemed to be a significant step forward to allowing our indigenous a place at the proverbial table. But is this what is really happening? The Governor General represents the Queen of England. The post celebrates the continuing power and status of the British colonizer.

In a diabolical twist, the Liberal government —while pretending to reconcile with indigenous people —has only reinforced the second class citizenship of the indigenous in Canada. To allow more indigenous people to serve inside a system that favours white privilege, and to appoint an indigenous person as the strongest symbol of colonialism is masterful subterfuge. And I fear there is no real intent or political will to set our indigenous free. Ever.

What I propose is that we treat our indigenous with real dignity and genuine respect. Likely this will mean the end of Canada as we know it and the rise of two equal nations—the indigenous and the colonizer’s. It will be a challenging adjustment for those of us who have enjoyed the benefits of white privilege for so long. But it is necessary if we are serious about treating our indigenous as equal partners.

An additional note: Unsuspecting visitors who land at our airports are likely to be met by beautiful indigenous artifacts in the foyers. They will be tempted to think that indigenous culture is valued right across our land. But is that really true? Or is it more of the colonizer’s two-faced narrative?

A theory about institutions

Change dominates our daily experience. We are like sails blowing in a cross wind. Nothing and no one stands still. Relationships, ideas, the weather —our very bodies—all are in a state of flux. Nothing appears stable for very long.

Against our seeming insignificance and the impermanence of things, we respond by forming institutions. These begin as favoured concepts and principles eventually galvanized into practical codes of conduct, often represented by ubiquitous symbols and by buildings made of stone. Our institutions are mandated to stand firm against the ravages of time.

Consider some of our most successful ones. Marriage, schools, justice systems, churches, governments, police forces, etc. All promise predictability and stability. The problem is that they can harm every bit as much as they can help.

There is nothing wrong with establishing institutions that bolster our communities and hold our lives to ideal standards. The problem is that institutions demand blind loyalty. Institutions do not take correction. They act with impunity and are almost impossible to reform.

Lately, the Canadian psyche has taken a profound beating. It appears that any intelligent Canadian can no longer look herself in the mirror and conclude —as was the past custom—that she stands in a cruel and unjust world as a righteous, tolerant and even progressive individual. Recent scandals in our military, police force, churches and government make the strong case that Canadians have been lying to themselves about themselves for perhaps centuries.

This is my theory. Individuals look to institutions for timeless guidance and stability. When institutions veer off course and allow the unthinkable (like the murder of indigenous children in a residential school), individuals inside them are loathe to criticize and denounce these lawless acts as genuine crimes. The reputation of the institutions is deemed more important than the damage done to people’s lives.

Our media has reported that in the Canadian military there have been rampant sexual assaults perpetrated by officers upon their soldiers. In the RCMP, there is systemic racism against indigenous people. In the Catholic Church there has been widespread abuse, neglect and genocide of the very individuals the church was supposed to help in their residential schools. Our government too continues to feign support for indigenous people all the while it is suing them in court.

Recently a Catholic cardinal was asked why the pope was not willing to apologize for the genocide perpetrated by the church on innocent indigenous children. His response? If the pope apologized every time there was a crime committed he would never stop. Clearly, this was not good for the impeccable reputation of God’s church.

I think institutions have a shelf life. Like garments that do not fit any more, they should be discarded and replaced with organizations that are current, humane and just. It is foolish to be impressed by institutions that survive across centuries —even millenia. Their survival for such lengths of time has almost certainly involved abuses of power and criminal behaviour. Institutions should not be commended for standing firm in the face of change. On the contrary, they should dance in step with change or disappear entirely.

Club membership revisited

In our current society, wherever you go you are invited to join a club where membership offers you special privileges. A quick look in your wallet will likely show you a slew of cards from various clubs: your supermarket, your gas station, your bank, your health provider and many more. Most clubs are benign because they ask you for support and loyalty in exchange for discounts on items or perks that you may need or want legitimately. And at this level, if your friends happen to belong to different clubs than you, it’s really not an issue.

There are clubs, however, that ask us to join them with a more aggressive and forceful tone. The principal benefit they offer is the certainty that you have been selected for a grand life while those who are not in the club are, sadly, destined for much less. These clubs validate you and give you hope while they condemn others to a miserable existence.

I am speaking primarily, of course, of religious clubs. These clubs have zeroed in on our most basic fear —which is the fear of dying— and offer us a way to neutralize it into something more palatable. Religious clubs offer us a type of logic, assurance and hope. They offer confidence to their members by reminding them that they will be spared the terrible consequences saved for non members.

No other clubs make claims that go this far.*

As a rule, I try to resist joining clubs and I work to foster widespread inclusion. I think it’s the most intelligent way to live. I also think it’s the most challenging way to live because inclusion relies on the belief that no one is special and no one is entitled to special treatment.

Absolutely no one.

This is challenging to live out because it goes against our natural tendency to distance ourselves from others in an attempt to feel confident and hopeful about our own lives. Unfortunately, we can feel validated when we exclude others who think and act differently than we do.

Inclusion is challenging because it means we have to take our place among others and ….stay there.

Clubs who need you to join them and then condemn others that haven’t should be avoided. Pure and simple.

Why, exactly?

Because they are lying to you. There is no good moral reason to join a club that wants to serve a select few. We should be wary of anyone who wants to build walls between us.

No one likes rejection. No one deserves it. We should do our best not to reject others.

Afterthoughts:

• At the start of the 80’s you could buy a jacket with the logo “Members Only.” When first introduced, these jackets were considered cool. But then they became an object of derision. For people to announce blatantly that they held special status just struck us as being stupid! (It is)

• It is children who constantly separate people into camps. It is children who ascribe special qualities to certain people. This is generally agreed to be immature behaviour.

*All clubs —your grocery store to your bank, etc. —extol the benefits of membership and say that you are missing out big time if you do not join them, but the religious clubs really mean it. Their membership is literally a matter of life or death.

Cultural UFC

If you listen carefully to most people in their 60’s and beyond, you will find that of uppermost importance in their minds is to live a life that is genuine and authentic. Gone is their need to strive for social acceptance and also gone is their need to be correct in absolute terms. All of this has been replaced by the desire —now that death is no longer an “experience for others” but a mathematical certainty for them— to live a simpler, more authentic life. A life that is carefully determined on a daily basis; a life that is unmistakably, uniquely theirs.

When those of us in this age bracket consider how our lives have been spent, we realize that much time has been spent fighting the powers that have sought to control our thoughts and actions from the very time we were born. The endless arguing with our parents, the push and pull with societal standards, the special demands individuals place on us —all of these have posed great challenges during our formative years and it took courage and determination to stand up to them and become ourselves.

Perhaps our greatest foe during our development has been the very culture we emerge from. This is the unspoken yet powerful force that shapes us into adulthood. It is the constant in our lives that promises and delivers stability and comfort at a very high price.

Culture can be defined simply as the thoughts and beliefs of a group of people. Culture develops exactly because there is some separation between one group and another. Not unlike a parasitical organism, the goal of culture is to perpetuate itself. In order to survive, our culture asks us to be inflexible and intolerant towards other cultures.

To be sure, I am not calling for all individuals to reject their culture outright. Rather, I am proposing the more difficult work of sifting through their cultural fabric to see what is truly theirs and what is mostly worn as a garment to please others. I see our fight with our culture as the last frontier for our soul’s very freedom. It is the necessary door we must go through in order to claim our full independence.

Let me explain what I mean. The basic trajectory of all individuals who move from childhood into adulthood is to rebel for a time against parents and various institutions in an attempt to determine their identity. This trajectory is easy to determine and can be mapped out for all of us. The enemy for the most part is obvious to see. The more subtle insidious force, however, is the culture that, in a sense, underwrites all that we fight against but we never see clearly enough to challenge directly.

I was raised in an Italian household. In my home, the Catholic faith was stressed but so were patriotism and a kind of ethnocentrism that looked down on other nationalities. In my upbringing there was a clear sense of what was right and wrong and most importantly, there was a clear understanding of what could happen to anyone who might leave our cultural path for a road less travelled. Most of the teachings I received were difficult to evaluate in themselves exactly because they were part of a large “cultural package.” To dissect and possibly discard any one teaching felt like committing a betrayal of the worst kind.

Fast forward to an older and more confident individual and now everything is on the table for discussion. I would say that I have spent the last 10 years mostly discarding ideas I had inherited but never fully appropriated. To say this has been a liberating experience would be a great understatement.

Making our struggle against culture even more difficult is the fact that individuals tend to look alike on the outside. One may enjoy perogies or tortellini on their family table and feel wholly free to be themselves. But for someone else, a cultural activity might be the tip of an iceberg that represents oppression or actual bondage. On the surface, it is near impossible to tell if an individual participates in a cultural activity for the right reasons.

When it’s time to accept our turn to die, I dare think that there can be no greater satisfaction than to know that eventually, after much fighting and struggle, a good portion of our lives was lived on our own terms. We owe this to ourselves if we want to call our human experience an actual blessing and a unique privilege. Anything less is to have lived and died a lie. And who, exactly were we trying to impress?