How Many Questions

The electrician, nearing the end of his assignment, conferred with the architect.

"I'm almost done with the wiring", he stated, "I just need to know about the capacity of the unit you're putting in this one."

The architect did a blindingly rapid mental tally - 65 beats per minute, 85 years; factor in some fun, some excitement, some fear.

"3.5 billion heartbeats. That should do."

"One more connection - and - I'm finished." said the journeyman.

"As always, a pleasure doing business with you."

*****

As in almost every design, though, there is a flaw.

It could quite possibly be infinitesimal, and of no real consequence.

Or..

...it might be be an oversight of epic proportion.

This error in judgement may not factor in those extra palpatations that pummel, that pound, while watching the doctor emerge from the operating room and walk down the hall towards her, to tell her of her young son's status.

It may not reflect that adrenalin surge, listening to her violent husband thrash and slam his way, beast-like, through the home they once made together.

Nor the anxiety of knowing she'll be late to pick up her kids at daycare, as her ever-downsizing company asks her to work an extra hour.

It might overlook the stillness of her heart as she sits by a bedside, holding her mother's cooling hand, hoping, willing. Pleading. Straining. So that they can trade beats - that her youthful strength can somehow infuse through translucent flesh and brittle bone and fatigued muscle and time. When it barely beats at all.

And what of the joys, the elations, the bliss? The burbling exuberance that makes her heart swell far beyond its physical boundaries? What about the extra, unexpected pitty-pats of thrall that still start when she hears his key in the door, even after 40 years of marriage? What of the magnificent grandchildren, the treasured friendships, the living history that is family?

What of that contentment, that azure blue calm of reflection at day's end? At life's end?

What of that?

How many heartbeats is one bestowed with?

How many breaths?

How many thoughts?

And why?

Forget the Cigar, Here's a PB & B Sandwich!

Lest We Forget

It's Remembrance Day here in Canada.

On a day where veterans, officials, and the appreciative lay wreaths upon cenotaphs and graves, I bring back to you one of my earlier posts.

Where I lay my wreath of words at the ground of one very special veteran I had the honor to know.

*****************************
Goodbye, Sam

How many of you know a person who truly embodies the phrase "lovely"?

How many of you know a person who is truly all that a "gentleman" should be?

Simple yet difficult questions. Fortunately for me, I know a man who was both of those things, every day of his life. His name was Sam Segal, and his long, meaningful life on earth came to an end last Wednesday.

Please realize that I am not related to Sam Segal. I was not a family friend. At best, I was the slightest of acquaintances - I only had a few short conversations with the man. But he and I went to the same house of worship, and I had the privilege to witness firsthand his magical effect over anyone who came through the doors. It was nothing short of wondrous. Every weekend, there he stood at his (self) elected post, standing tall, looking sharp, always immaculate in his grooming, with a carnation in his suit lapel. Here was our ambassador, who greeted everyone - young, old, skittish, devoted, humble, haughty - with the same warm greeting: "Welcome. We're glad you're here." He smiled with his eyes, and he made everyone immediately feel like they'd made the most important, most correct decision of their lives to be there that morning. He initiated the worship process right at the front foyer, immediately filling everyone with a sense of belonging.

To speak with Sam was to be engaged in a conversation with a lovely soul. He took your hand every time you spoke with him. Here was such a decent man, you immediately felt better in his company. I never heard him say a negative thing about anyone - and in a culture where everyone seems to have something to say about someone - he kept his criticisms to himself. In doing so, you naturally felt compelled to follow suit.

What I learned at his funeral was nothing more than I expected, yet in the articulation of all that he was and all that he had done, it became strikingly evident that this dear man had a huge impact on everyone he knew. I know one of his daughters - she, too, is lovely and strong, and a gentlewoman of her own making. Her graveside stories were neither maudlin nor sad, but a beautiful heartfelt tribute.

Sam, like many young men of his time, served his country in World War II. While many who came home chose to forget that part of their past, Sam instead chose to become involved in a Legion club. Every year, he would organize a Remembrance Day Service during which a list of his fallen comrades was read, followed with "The Last Post" being played during a minute of quiet reflection. One of most emotional things I have ever witnessed took place at Sam's funeral; many of his Legion friends were there, wearing their Remembrance Day poppies. Keep in mind that most of these gentleman (and lady) are in their 80's and early 90's, so their attendance on a cold, icy, winter day was no small feat.

One by one, they approached his casket and removed their poppy and laid it to rest, along with Sam. "The Last Post" was then played, as these veterans stood at salute and sent their friend off. Even now as I write this, I'm still overcome by the power of the symbolism of this gesture. Steadfast loyalty to country, to family, to friends, to religion, to responsibility - this was who Sam Segal was, and it is who we should all aspire to be.

Sam, may you find your heaven with Melva, and continue to be an inspiration to all who knew you. I'm a better person for having known you.

******************
It's a day to take pause - for the merest of moments - and recognize the magnitude of influence that all servicemen and women have had in our lives. It is they who truly have given of themselves to protect their countries.

Our countries.

So today I urge you to give the merest of moments.

Lest we forget.

In Pursuit of Hirsute

I'm not sure if any of you fine readers are aware of late Autumn/early Winter on the West Coast of Canaderrr, but baby, it's cold outside. And not the cold that you can really dress against. This is the insidious moist cold that wriggles its way between your bazillion layers of clothing and magically penetrates down to your sinew and bones.

There, now I've set the scene of yesterday afternoon. Sure, the sun was out (kinda) and mocking us from its spot up in the solar system - fat lot of good it did way up there. Down on the ground, I was on my way to my niece's soccer game.

OUTSIDE.

[This should earn me not only your admiration at my fortitude and commitment, but also a truckload of karmic credit. I did not want to be there. I do not really like soccer. But I am crazy about my niece. So I go.]

As I approached the field, I had to call my son to ask where he was; I had scoured the crowds on both sides of the field (from the pleasant comfort of my car) and could not find him. It is such very bad form when you ensconce yourself amongst the opposing team's family and friends and start berating the referee for not calling more penalties against the goon-ish hermaphrodites playing against your niece.

Very bad form. Trust me on this one.

It turned out that he was right in front of me, along with my brother-in-law. I didn't notice them, as they were hunkered down so far in their lawnchairs, they appeared to be the height of toddlers.

Walking up behind them, my son turned around to say hi. Then, my brother-in-law.

"Yarrrrgh!" I screeched. [*please note that this is not a usual family greeting nor something charmingly regional].

"What the hell happened to your beard and moustache???" [*note: this was me asking him, not the other way around. This is a usual family greeting...}

In the entire 27 years I've known him, this is the first time I've ever seen my outlaw without any facial hair. He usually has a moustache/goatee or moustache/beard combo.

Now he's just beginning to sprout it back.

"Whateth uppeth with the baby 'stash?" I queried.

"It's Mo-vember", said Monsiuer Hairless.

"Ohhhhh! Of course. Mo-vember. And just what is that, again? Some 3 Stooges thing?"

It turns out that Mo-vember is fun little campaign to raise money for Prostate Cancer.

Originally started as a beer-fuelled challenge between some Australian buddies, Movember has mushroomed into a significant fundraiser. Men either clean their facial slate and begin again from scratch, or start to grow where nary a follicle grew before. It's a time to get in touch with one's Magnum PI or Fu Manchu. Or maybe Rolly Fingers. Or that cranky dude from American Chopper.

The clever thing about going this route with fundraising is that it can't but help start a dialogue. There's the shock value of seeing those who rocked the beard start afresh, and the curiousity about those who would usually never choose to 'mo' up. It's a little less startling than head-shaving, and maybe a little more edgy. Oh, and ladies? It's a guy thing. Except for you , Chaz Bono.

To quote the article that I read about it today, "Men will want to be you and women will want to be with you." I have to admit, promises like that sound pretty attractive to me. Rahwr. . .

Gentlemen, I urge you to drop the razor, have some fun & preen away for a good cause:

For more information on Mo-vember or to register and participate, go here:

ca.movember.com (canada)

us.movember.com (united states)

Thoughtful Thursday

"I hate rules."

"Rules were made to be broken."

"Who listens to rules anyways?"

Well, I do.

I may be taking an unpopular stance (like that's never happened before), but I really believe in rules. Without these imposing boundaries, chaos is only steps away from setting up shop.

I think that rules have a valuable place in our lives. I may not always understand the rationale behind them, but I have to respect that somewhere along the line, a precedent was set that caused these rules to need to be created.

I like the fact that I had no input into most rules that exist. It reminds me that I am not always the Tzarina and Absolute Controller of my universe; it is humbling.

Needless to say, any document that talks about rules I find absolutely fascinating. Cherie Carter-Scott wrote a book called, "If Life is a Game, These are the Rules" - its ten-point framework and related sub-topics are today's TT:

"Rule #1: You will receive a Body. [Acceptance, Self-Esteem, Respect, Pleasure]

Rule #2: You will be presented with Lessons. [Openness, Choice, Fairness, Grace]

Rule #3: There are no mistakes, only Lessons. [Compassion, Forgiveness, Ethics, Humour]

Rule #4: A Lesson is Repeated Until Learned. [Awareness, Willingness, Causality, Patience]

Rule #5: Learning Does Not End. [Surrender, Commitment, Humility, Flexibility]

Rule #6: 'There' is no better than 'Here'. [Gratitude, Unattachment, Abundance, Peace]

Rule #7: Others are Only Mirrors of You. [Tolerance, Clarity, Healing, Support]

Rule #8: What You Make of Your Life is Up To You. [Responsibility, Release, Courage, Power, Adventure]

Rule #9: All Your Answers Lie Inside of You. [Listening, Trust, Inspiration]

Rule #10: You Will Forget All of This at Birth." [Faith, Wisdom, Limitlessness]

And I guess this is why I find these types of limitations so interesting. It all distills down to the exploration of the fundamental why.

Lest you begin to think that I'm an insufferable suck up, know this. I may follow all the rules, but only to a point. Once I have scoured their blueprints, once I learned them so well I can divine the intricacy of their infrastructure, once I know with complete certainty where they are pliable, I will expertly manipulate them.

I just don't feel the urge to immediately dismiss them nor snap them like a twig; bending will suffice quite nicely.

I think that might just be a lesson learned.

Thoughtful Thursday

Today's Thoughtful Thursday comes from one of my newer readers, Titanium.

She's all kind of eloquent, with a little kick-assery thrown in for good measure. I so admire her strength and am thankful she can open my eyes - and in turn yours - to such fine imagery as this:

On the day when
the weight deadens
on your shoulders
and you stumble,
may the clay dance
to balance you.

And when your eyes
freeze behind
the grey window
and the ghost of loss
gets in to you,
may a flock of colors,
indigo, red, green,
and azure blue
come to awaken in you
a meadow of delight.

When the canvas frays
in the currach of thought
and a stain of ocean
blackens beneath you,
may there come across the waters
a path of yellow moonlight
to bring you safely home.

May the nourishment of the earth be yours,
may the clarity of light be yours,
may the fluency of the ocean be yours,
may the protection of the ancestors be yours.

And so may a slow
wind work these words
of love around you,
an invisible cloak
to mind your life.

John O' Donohue

And may you be able to, on this Thursday, brush aside that windblown scattering of scarlet and amber leaves to find that pathway leading to your personal meadow of delight.

Get The Flock Out of Here

In today's 'Torn From the Headlines Tuesday':

"Lambasting: [editor's note: oh, ho, ho - now this is clever!]
Shepherds angry over EU animal-product rulings

Shepherds shout anti-government slogans while they hold a sheep head in the front of the Romanian Finance Ministry in Bucharest, Wednesday. Some 500 shepherds protested against new European Union rules on selling animal products, saying a requirement that milk, cheese and meat products be packaged and certified by food-safety officials will make it harder for them to sell their products...Later they met with Romanian officials for discussions."

One topic of discussion was market terminology, i.e. the criteria under which one could be referred to as an actual 'shepherd'. If the existing definition indeed were to infer one who was tending to the well-being of a flock, a subsequent discussion ensued as to who was ultimately responsible for looking after the sheep whose head was being flayed about during the protest.

It was ruled, among the 500 'shepherds' present, that their current number would be amended to 499, with money collected for Vlad Brzlanowicz to take the bus home to his rural village.

Further discussions yielded satisfactory results for both parties. Talks concluded peacefully around noon with the Finance Ministry's discreet and unsactioned purchase of said sheep's head, a bucket of maggoty entrails and a local delicacy consisting of salted ram testicles and headcheese.

When asked to comment as to who came out victorious in the debate, one elected official was quoted as saying "Mmmmm...Nu se poate opri mincind sa vorbeasca."

***************
In other news, an inexplicable outbreak of e-coli on this week brought the Romanian Finance Ministry to its knees for three days after a celebratory luncheon went awry.

When asked for a comment, one food safety officer - at first appearing to be quietly deliberating over his answer, moaned "Brzlanowicz!" and promptly threw up.