Silence

Silence is rare in our home.

My wife is exuberant.

Our daughter is not a dud.  She rarely stops moving.  Or speaking. 

I’m quieter.  Not talking is my default. 

When I fly across the country to visit my parents after not seeing them for months, I often sit in the living room and read.  It must frustrate my poor mom as she regales me with stories, and I do not respond.  Instead, I’m mute, poring over the local newspaper.

Last week, after Covid restrictions loosened, we visited with my wife’s parents and sister for the first time in forever.  They are a passionate family – interested in everything – lulls in the conversation are rare.  We sat outside on their patio, which offers a spectacular view of the ocean. 

True to form, I said almost nothing.  I sat.  I gazed at the water and Mount Baker in the distance. 

I must appear disengaged.  Lost in my own world.

Yet that’s not the case.  In those situations, nothing is more precious to me than my family.  Being surrounded by those I love means more to me than anything. It is where I want to be.  It is my comfort zone. 

Talking isn’t. 

My wife and I joke that I “bury it deep.”  Why speak aloud what can safely be tucked away inside? 

I could do better.  I could talk more.  I do believe we should all push beyond our comfort zones.

Yet, we have comfort zones for a reason.  Water finds it level.  We do too.  Learning to accept who and what we are – those things that are intrinsic to our personalities, and fundamental to our beings, is essential. 

I don’t actually bury it deep.  If I did, this blog wouldn’t exist.  On it, I share some of my innermost thoughts.  Things I wouldn’t say over coffee with my family, friends, or co-workers, I write down for the world to see.  I can’t explain it. It just feels right. 

Like silence.

As we sat on my in-law’s patio, and they talked, I spotted two Orcas, no more than a hundred meters offshore.  The fins of these killer whales cut through the water with grace and precision.  It was a spectacular sight.

Silence has its rewards.

Top of the Hat

Deadly car crashes.

Endless road work.

Traffic congestion.

Incredible views.

All synonymous with ‘the Malahat’ – both an 1100-foot mountain and a twisting highway on Vancouver Island.

When conditions aren’t ideal it’s awful to drive – no lights illuminate the road, few barriers separate speeding cars from massive trucks, and rain, fog, and snow slicken the pavement and obscure already obstructed views.

Oh, but the view from the summit is extraordinary. 

Just hundreds of meters away from the congested highway is a mostly deserted trail.  Last weekend I ran to the summit.  In two-hours I saw two dirt-bikers and no one else.  On an island of several hundred thousand people, I was alone.

The trail to the summit was mostly satisfying – hard-packed dirt and gradual elevation.  Closer to the top, a rocky pathway replaced the earthen trail.  Running slowed to a jog, every step a potential twisted ankle or inglorious fall.

Soon after, running ceased altogether when I chose the direct route to the top.  Straight up a gully that must be a continual stream of water from November through spring.  But last weekend, on a hot dry day with summer on the horizon it was dry and completely accessible.  I grabbed a broken branch and used it as a walking stick to help as I scrambled my way up.

The scramble was worth it.

Oh, that view.

Blue sky, bluer ocean, distant mountains, a forest canopy, and an international airport as small as a postage stamp.

Travellers from across the country and around the world drive up the Malahat highway, exit at the scenic viewpoints, and revel at the glorious view.  Thousands – tens of thousands – do it every year.

Far fewer take the trail to the top.  Dozens.  Hundreds.  Runners like me.  Hikers, mountain-bikers and quad-riders.

We are drawn by the same thing.  Beauty.  Magnificence.  Nature’s wonders.

The attraction is so understandable.  The destination is worth the journey.

Which makes the next part so hard for me to understand. 

Garbage at the top.  Beer cans.  Plastic.  Paper.

Lucky lager cans tucked into the base of a hydro tower. A fire pit filled with garbage.

Who does that?  Who makes the effort to get to the top precisely because it is beautiful and then purposely despoils that beauty?  The beer cans tucked into the hydro-tower.  More cans, paper, and plastic left almost lovingly behind in the pit.

I don’t have the answer.  My gut reaction is that anyone who does that is an asshole.  I hate using that language in my writing, but it’s hard to feel otherwise.

But maybe that’s not fair.  Maybe the person who makes the effort to get to the top and then discards their trash for others to clean is me on a bad day.  Maybe it’s you.  Those people are someone’s neighbours.  They’re the people we see at the grocery store.  People we hire, work with, or work for.  Maybe our friends.  Whoever they are, they walk among us.

I try and understand.  Try to be sympathetic.  Usually, my anger and disgust overpower empathy. 

How are we supposed to understand people who clearly appreciate beauty, yet are so reckless in making the very place they worked so hard to arrive at, less beautiful?

There may be a million answers to that question. Philosophical, spiritual, practical.  There may be no answers.

I’ve given up trying to understand.  I find great wisdom in the words of Lee Child.  Author of the massively best-selling Jack Reacher series, something he wrote several books back has stuck with me ever since – “People are complicated.”

I’m not sure truer words have ever been spoken, and I don’t think a philosopher, or a Nobel laureate could say it any better than that.

People are complicated.  

Even at the top of the Malahat.

The Vacuum Cleaner Survival Kit

When she was two my daughter feared the vacuum cleaner.  The sound, the suction, the fury.  She ran, hid, and cried.

My wife loves to vacuum.  Perhaps ‘love’ is the wrong word.  She needs to vacuum. 

Back then we had a Golden Retriever.  We ate and breathed floating fur.

The vacuum came out a lot.              

I created the Vacuum Cleaner Survival Kit.  Simple ingredients.  A cloth Crown Royal whiskey bag.  Fish crackers.  Miniature dolls.  A small book or two.  Little pleasures to distract a little girl.

Out came the vacuum – out came the survival kit.  My daughter and I perched ourselves on the kitchen island – ate, played and read – while my wife attacked the floors with her prized Dyson.

The survival kit worked.

Weeks before the pandemic hit, I started a new job at work.  It was stressful.  It cost me sleep, regularly, in a way that nothing at work had ever done before.

I talked with others who’d done the same job.  They’d had similar experiences.  There was comfort in knowing I wasn’t alone, and discomfort in knowing that this was my world now. 

I coped by doing what I always did.  I ran, I read, I wrote.  It all helped.  A bit.  But too often I lay awake in the middle of the night, thinking about work.

Desperate times called for…

 I pulled out a blank notebook.

And I began to write: “Last week was tough and my concern is, if it continues it will have many negative effects.  So, is born The Vacuum Cleaner Survival Kit.  Things to do, listen, think about, watch, etc… to help me … not just survive but be and do well.”

It worked.  Unbelievably well.  That notebook became my repository of everything.  I filled it with meaningful quotations from novels, Navy Seals and podcasts.  I chronicled my days and our lives.  I wrote about my aspirations and fears, about the people who pissed me off, and the things that brought me joy.  Writing it down lightened my load, changed my attitude and helped me gain perspective I lacked when I was stuck in a moment.

A few weeks ago, I marked the one-year anniversary of the Survival Kit.  Much has happened in my life since.  At work, and at home.  Good things.  Things that I’m thankful for.  Challenging things have happened too.  Health scares hitting close to home.  Many books read, many podcasts listened to.  Many people and writers who have inspired me.

And one year later, yet another new job at work.  Equally stressful.  Perhaps more so.  It challenges me daily.  So, I run, and I read.  I go to the climbing gym and I strum my guitar.  And I write it all down in The Vacuum Cleaner Survival Kit. 

Striving for Mediocrity

We live in a beautiful subdivision.  West coast style homes on large lots.  Perfectly manicured lawns and gardens abound.  Last weekend I watched someone vacuum their rock garden. (I once went 8 months without vacuuming the carpet in the basement apartment I shared with my Golden Retriever. … In my defense I did clean the bathroom weekly). 

I love our neighbourhood – a perfect mix of young families and vibrant retirees.  The park, the trails, the front porches, are all conducive to building friendships and creating a community.

There are rules though.  We’re governed by bylaws.  A long list of ‘though shall’ and ‘though shall not’ commandments dictate how our yards must look: our grass, our fences, what we park in our driveway.  Breaking the rules is a roll of the dice.  Maybe no one notices or cares.  Or maybe someone writes a letter to the council.  And they investigate.  And issue a warning letter.   Or a fine.  Maybe things get ugly.  It’s happened before.

Our home and grounds will never be the most attractive.  Our lawn is not perfectly manicured.  There’s moss, and dead spots from dog pee.  But we try.  We plant flowers, and hang baskets.  We grow vegetables.  We’ve trucked in yards of soil and mulch and spent thousands of dollars on cedars and shrubs.  In part we do it because we enjoy it.  It is satisfying and rewarding to beautify our home and our neighbourhood.  But there isn’t enough money, and definitely not enough time.  We’re treading water in the battle against weeds, erosion and decay.  We’re striving for mediocrity.  Trying to fit in, and not stand out for the wrong reasons.

I’m learning to accept that striving for mediocrity is okay.  It’s not the mediocrity that matters.  It’s the striving.

Before work I often run at Summit Park in Victoria.  This time of year, the sun rises as I run intervals on a dirt path around a reservoir in this hidden jewel of a park that overlooks the city.  This week the sunrise reminded me that our sun, and the universe, are billions of years old.  They will continue for billions of years after we are gone. 

In the time scale of the cosmos, you and I, and everything we do, are utterly insignificant.  We could not matter less.  Which, paradoxically, makes you and I, and everything we do, infinitely important.  Because our lives are miracles, precious and rare.  Every second matters.  Everything we do counts.

We cannot and should not strive to be mediocre in all we do.  Mediocre doesn’t cut it when it comes to being a husband or a father.  Our careers matter too – we have a responsibility to do our best when we go to work.  We owe it to our colleagues.  We owe it to each other.  We’re privileged to live in this country.  We all play a role in keeping it working – whatever work we do.

But life is too short to define it by our careers.  The universe is too big and too old not to pursue our passions.  Last month I went bouldering for the first time.  I’m scared of heights and I wanted to face that fear.  I’ve been three times now.  I love it.  Being sixteen feet off the ground, knowing a fall might mean serious injury focuses my mind and body more than almost anything I’ve ever done.  Talk about living in, and appreciating, the moment.  It’s impossible to think about work while lunging from one hold to another while dangling in the air.

Two weeks ago I bought a guitar.  I’ve never played an instrument in my life.  I have zero innate musical talent.  I can’t read a note.  I can’t hold a tune.  I’m starting from rock bottom.  I’ve played that guitar every day since.  I’m awful, as my neighbours will attest, because sometimes, when I get home from work, I play on the front porch or back patio.  If there isn’t a noise bylaw in our neighbourhood there should be.  They have every right to complain about my botched chords and terrible twanging.

If someone does complain, I’ll plead guilty and pay the fine.  I’ll never become a good guitar player, or even an average one, if I don’t strive for mediocrity first.

… Now, out to the garden.

The Hard Miles

“The hardship of running somehow softens the hardship of life.  Running turns the madness into music.”

Those words, from the foreword to Phil Hewitt’s ‘Outrunning the Demons’ capture the essence of this book – Life is hard.  Running helps.  Hewitt himself was stabbed, beaten and left for dead alongside a South African highway.  He survived.  Running helped.

And inspired him to collect the stories of others who, in their darkest hours, found solace in running.  People shaken by grief, addiction, disease, injury, and mental illness – in the worst of their pain, running helped them survive.

As is often the case, I write this on the couch, my daughter beside me.  A mini-crisis has just passed.   Strawberry yogurt everywhere.  “Oh no, I got some on my pajamas,” she yelled.  A very big deal for her.  Less so for me.  I responded that if yogurt spilled all over the sofa, and covered her and painted the ceiling, it would be okay.  We would fix it.  We would survive a Yogurt Disaster

As the yogurt spill played out, I looked out our front window and saw a runner, in her bright yellow vest, racing along a path near our home.  I know her.  A little.  She runs every day.  I’ve seen her running in deep snow on days when I struggled for hours just to shovel our driveway.  In winter’s darkest days she is out there – in driving rain and howling winds.  I don’t know her story.  But I suspect she needs running.  Needs it just as much as food, and water and air. 

That’s how I feel too.

Not many years ago, someone very close to me was diagnosed with cancer.  I was terrified she would die.  It was a bad year.  Stress, worry, uncertainty and fear churned within.  So I ran.  Signed up for a marathon and trained for it not because I wanted to.  I had no time goal.  The distance was no great challenge.  I’d run marathons before.  I entered that marathon because I needed to.  A lot changed in my life that year.  But running was a constant that helped see me through the worst and emerge on the other side.   

The other side is a new life.  A life that might be very similar to yours.  A spouse, a child.  A career with constant stress, modulating daily, sometimes hourly, from moderate to severe.  Always present and always a roller-coaster ride. 

Yesterday was Easter.  My wife and I watched a day of joy unfold as our daughter hunted Easter eggs.  We watched as her grandparents and aunt showered her with love, and chocolate, and placed a pink Easter bonnet on her head.

And there was sadness too.  My parents are a long way away.  So is my youth.  I remembered Easter when I was a child.  Chocolate and church and sunshine.  Yesterday I wanted to hug my mom and dad and my brother and his family.  And be with them and tell them how much I love them.  And thank them for those wonderful memories.

One of those memories is music.  “Morning has Broken.”  A song for the ages.  A song that captures light and life and spring and sunshine.  An Easter song.  So yesterday, in the midst of it all, on a bright beautiful April day, I ran to the trails and listened to Cat Stevens sing that song.  I played it over and over again.  I found a valley and a lone daffodil.  Just the one, in a sea of grasses and weeds.  And I thought about it all.  And was thankful for everything.  Joy and youth, light and life, family and friends. Running and hard miles.

Every Second

“Travel is medicine.  It resensitizes.  It opens you up … It forces your childlike self back into action.”

… the opening lines of ‘To Shake the Sleeping Self’ by Jedidiah Jenkins   One paragraph in I knew I’d love the book.   I didn’t just read those lines.  I absorbed them. They shook me.  Reminded me of far away places and long-ago adventures.  Sunshine and excitement.  Relaxation and restoration.  One paragraph in, Jedidiah shook this sleeping reader.

Words that resonated, in part, because, for a year now, we have been unable to travel.  Robbed of the pleasure of planning that next trip.  Of exploring a part of the world we’ve never seen before.  Or returning somewhere meaningful and magical.  Somewhere guaranteed to restore the soul.

Yesterday we searched closer to home – driving four kilometers, instead of flying four thousand.  Low budget travel – a couple cookies, a thermos of coffee, and a bag of stale breads for the seagulls. 

We needed to be away from home, together.  Away from to-do lists that never ended.  Away from the television.  Away from minor tensions and an epic tantrum. 

We needed air and water and trees. 

We found them.  Along a shoreline so close to home we had taken it for granted for years.  Never stopped.  Never explored. 

Here’s something else Jedidiah Jenkins wrote: “When you are a kid, everything is new.  You don’t know what’s under each rock … So, you look.  You notice … Every second has value.”

The essence of mindfulness.  Finding value in every second.  That does not mean every moment is pleasant or welcome.  Every moment just is. 

Every day I struggle with being present in the moment. 

It’s worse than that.  Every moment I struggle with being present in the moment.  My mind races.  Five minutes ahead, five hours ahead, five years ago.

Five.  Our daughter is five.  Yesterday, at the beach, she found value in every second.  She didn’t just feed the seagulls.  She made seashell sandwiches, fan-shaped shells, filled with water and layers and layers of bread.  The seagulls swooped in – fighting, clamoring, the winner soaring away with every morsel in its beak.  The losers squawking for more.

We discovered secret passages – pathways through dense trees.  We scampered up rocks and across logs.  We saw a sad face carved in stone, and memorial plaques mounted on boulders.  Plaques that showed that this had been a special place to others.  They too had come here and valued every second.

I’m still reading Jedidiah’s book.  He’s in South America now, nearing the end of a bike trip that began in Oregon.  A pre-Covid trip.  I envy him – envy his travels, his insights and his talent.

Soon after I met my wife, she travelled to South America.  She flew in rickety planes, ate great food, and experienced people and places that I – that all of us – can only dream of now.

Places and trips that happened years ago.  Places and trips that might happen again, depending on vaccines and variants.

In the meantime, I’m thankful that Jedidiah and my daughter remind me that every second has value. 

More Things Matter Less

Two people I didn’t know died recently.

I learned about them, their lives, and their deaths, from grieving friends.

Their deaths were unexpected.  One from a chronic health problem that deteriorated rapidly.  The second also “natural,” but without warning.  Both had young children.  Both left grieving families, friends, and colleagues

Natural causes.  A phrase we’ve all heard thousands of times.  Two words that don’t convey the pain death leaves in its wake.

I began to think of death a little differently not that long ago.  It was something I heard on a show that has become a big part of my life.  The Rich Roll Podcast.  Rich is an ultra-endurance athlete, a vegan and an inspiration.  He challenges himself and his listeners to be their best selves.  His guests share their lives with Rich because he’s authentic, curious, and humble.  He radiates warmth and trust.  He’s become a fixture in my life.  Like a friend I’ve never met.  Although I did meet him once.  Travelled across the country to hear him speak and met him briefly afterward.  Bought a t-shirt which I still have.  Very worn, and very torn, I still wear it proudly.

A year or so ago, one of Rich’s guests spoke about aging, and longevity – with a focus on people around my age – forty and fifty.  Not old, but not young.

The guest said something like ‘Nature doesn’t need you anymore.’

Thought provoking words.  Not spiritual, not healing, not sugar-coated.  Evolutionary.  We are all animals.   Dying is wired into our DNA.  And by our forties and fifties, most of us have had children, and aren’t going to have any more.  Nature – cruel, merciless – doesn’t need us.

A lot of things don’t need us.

Work doesn’t need us.  If we are lucky, we have careers in which we are fortunate enough to make contributions – to our co-workers, to our organizations, to the world at large.  But, at work, each of us is completely replaceable, regardless of what we do.  You and I might be missed.  But we’re not necessary.  Not essential.  We’d be replaced and the machine would grind on.

Things don’t need us.  We surround ourselves with so much that is non-essential.  So much plastic, so much made overseas, so much packaging.  Inert crap, that adds little value to our lives.

The news cycle doesn’t need us.  It gorges, spits out, and moves on.  Trump today – gone tomorrow. 

The planet doesn’t need us – alive, we drain it, suck out its exhaustible resources.  Every second we breathe, we’re part of the problem.  Dead, we return to the earth.  Giving a little bit back after all we’ve taken.

But if a lot of things don’t need us – a lot of people do.

Our communities.  Our friends.  Our families.  Our children.

Not knowing that I’m writing this – never knowing anything that I write about – my five-year old daughter just started talking about death. She said to me “I bet you die right now.”  I reassured her and told her that wasn’t going to happen.

I did not tell her that nature doesn’t need her father anymore.  She’s five.  She still needs her dad.  Needs to cover my face in shaving cream like she did a couple of hours ago.  Needs to paint my nails pink and spray me with perfume like she did right after that.

And I need her.  For as long as I can hang on. 

Which is another reason Rich Roll has become a mentor and inspiration.  Nature is merciless.  Accidents happen.   Diseases ravage.  Aging never stops, and always takes a toll.  But there are things we can do that increase our chances – increase our chances to live longer, be healthier, and find contentment in whatever path or paths we choose along the way. 

More things matter less than ever to me now.  Things I used to be passionate about like baseball and politics.  Not that long ago they were central to my life, now they exist on the periphery.

But if many things matter less, then a few things matter more.  My family.  My friends.  Seeking rewarding work – not working for rewards.  Reading. Writing. Running.

And living a life with pink nails, and a shaving cream head.

Getting Back

I travelled for work this week. 

Long hours.  Little sleep. 

No reading.  No running.  No family. 

Mentally drained.  Physically weary.

I work with good people.  Dedicated.  Smart.  Engaged.  Kind.  If I must be away from home, those are the people I want to be with.

Still, it felt great getting back.

Hugging my wife and daughter.  Sleeping in my own bed.  Waking up, drinking coffee, and reading.

Returning to normal, after a few days of not normal. 

Not normal meant five days without running.  Instead, I traded running for sleep.

That doesn’t happen often.

So, it felt wonderful to lace up my trail shoes this morning.  A clear sky.  A cold day.  Well below zero with a biting wind.

To run with no other purpose than to run.  To move my legs, inflate my lungs, and clear my head.  To appreciate the beauty of the forest along the path I’ve run a hundred times before.  An isolated path with traces of snow, alongside a stream of icy water.  The crunch of frozen dirt underfoot.  No people, no phone calls, no stress.  Blue Rodeo in my earbuds.  More than a band.  Poets and philosophers of life and death, joy and pain.  Songs about navigating back to normal when your world strays.

A one hour run.  Never fast.  Or slow.  Just a run.  A little bit of uphill, a little bit of downhill. 

Like most of our days, most of the time.  Normal.  A bit good, a bit bad.  Usually somewhere in between. 

We are all desperate for normal now, almost a year into Covid.  Lockdowns and masks.  No travel.  Distant family.  Those damn arrows on the floors in grocery stores.  I hate those arrows.

Anger at those who break the rules.  The temptation to break them ourselves – to ignore the arrows, visit a friend, travel.

A virus jolted us out of normal.  We took too much for granted for too long. And now we wait for vaccines, and double-mask our faces, and challenge ourselves to be more patient than we’ve ever been in our lives.

If only it was as easy as a run, along a trail, on a cold winter’s day. 

What You Have Endured

I ran 12k hard this morning.  I finished gasping for breath, tasting blood in my lungs, with legs that felt like they were encased in cement.

It hurt. 

Which was entirely the point because I was racing.  A virtual race.  The only kind of race our Covid world allows.  No other runners, no spectators, no finish line.  Just me and my GPS watch.

If I had not signed up, this morning’s run would not have hurt.  I would not have pushed myself to run maximum effort for nearly an hour.  I would not have subjected myself to voluntary pain. 

I would not have relaxed.

Hurt and relaxation.  Essential elements of running hard.  Essential elements of living.

Running brought a good friend into my life years ago.  An accomplished runner and even better person.  I was Luke, and he was my Yoda.  He was smooth, I was ungainly.  He ran fast effortlessly – I did not.  I equated speed with pain – my body clenching, tightening, straining.  My friend helped me understand that less was more, that letting go, breathing, unclenching, loosening, relaxing, allowed me to run smoother, stronger and ultimately, faster.  It was both counterintuitive and made perfect sense.  And it worked.  My best runs, my fastest times were under his tutelage.   

I thought of him today when I ran, struggling for speed, fighting to hold the pace.  Hurting and relaxing.  Relaxing and hurting. 

Running is a wonderful metaphor for life, but not a perfect one.  When running hurts too much, I can choose to slow down – even stop – I can make the pain go away.

We can’t do that in life.

There is pain.  For all of us.  Pain that comes and goes, pain that ebbs and flows.  Chronic pain.  Pain in our bodies.  Pain in our souls.  Fleeting pain.  Pain that heals.

Pain that reveals. 

Pain reveals our weaknesses, in our bodies, in our psyches. 

Pain hurts.

So relax. 

Breathe.  Walk.  Meditate.  Read.  Listen.  Sing.  Hug.  Pray.  Love.  Share.  Give.

And then – stop relaxing.  Do things that hurt.  Run hard.  Lift weights.  Cycle until your legs are on fire.  Take a cold shower.  Hold your breath until your lungs explode.  Do something that makes you want to scream – do it because you can – do it because you control the pain.

Do it because when you choose to suffer – you can relax.  It is within you.  It is in your breath.  It is in every fiber of your body.  Pain and peace are not opposites.  They are not mutually exclusive.  They are in all of us, always.  Co-existing.  Waxing.  Waning.  Teaching.

Pain teaches us to relish its absence.  This afternoon my daughter and I played in a park, walked in our neighbourhood, and saw some of her friends.  All those moments were just a little more precious because hours before I ran hard and made myself hurt. 

And then the hurting stopped.  Not long after my run, my body felt better.  My lungs didn’t taste like blood anymore.  Instead, it was as if my airway had tripled in size and oxygen was being pumped into my chest.  The air I was breathing was cleaner, fresher, more potent.  My legs stopped hurting.  Instead, they ached – good aching – the aching that only comes from pushing past comfort.  Aching that satisfies.

Relaxing in the midst of pain teaches us … teaches us that we can relax in the midst of pain.  We don’t have to enjoy pain.  We can hate the pain.  But we can co-exist with it.  We can conquer it.  The next time it happens to you, you will emerge on the other side.  Maybe scarred, maybe scared, maybe aching everywhere.  But you will be stronger, better, and more equipped to deal with the next time.  And all the good moments – joy, fun, normalcy, Netflix, will be that much sweeter, for what you have endured.

Addiction.ca

I cannot remember the last Saturday morning when the first thing I did after pouring my coffee wasn’t looking at homes on Realtor.ca.

I like our house.

Sometimes I love it.

Our neighbourhood is fantastic – trails and a park – young families and retirees.  A genuine community.

And yet, Realtor.ca beckons.  Constantly.  Not just on Saturday mornings.  The app on my phone means constant checks throughout the week. 

Chasing the perfect home. An extra bathroom.  A magnificent view.  Something more walkable too – schools, stores, coffee-shops – ideally would be just a short stroll away.

The next best thing just around the corner.  Because the next home will make everything better.  Parenting, life, and work stress will disappear when we add another toilet.

It’s ridiculous of course.  Most of us grew up sharing bathrooms, in homes without walk-in closets and jacuzzi tubs.  We survived just fine.  We didn’t know any different.

I think of my grandparents.  Children of the First World War.  Young parents themselves during World War II.  They suffered.  Their infant daughter died soon after birth in the dark autumn of 1944 in occupied Holland.  War raged while they mourned and battled for survival, and struggled to raise their surviving daughter.  My mother.

Many decades later my grandparents retired to a small bungalow in very small-town Ontario.  One bedroom, one bathroom.  They took pride in that home.  My grandfather spent thousands of hours in his garden.  Sometimes I helped him.  Today, when I work in our backyard – a sun-drenched property with apple trees, pear trees, and garden boxes which overflow with tomatoes – I think of how much my grandfather would have loved this home.  I wish he was alive and bedside me.  And I feel guilty for ever thinking about leaving. 

Leaving a place my daughter loves, adding a hundred thousand dollars to our mortgage, and an hour a day to my commute, all for the sake of looking outside and seeing the ocean and the mountains.

The draw of that view is powerful.  The desire for an extra bathroom is real.  So is the reality that the things I want come at a cost. A cost that may not be worth paying. 

Still, it’s hard not to look. 

Addiction.ca