Category: Bittersweet

Light Pokes Through

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November rain didn’t fall on Vancouver Island this year.  At least, not as often as it usually does.

Instead, our days have been cold and clear. 

The nearby trails have been icy instead of muddy.

I’ve needed sunglasses more than a rain jacket.

Those trails have been a lifeline over the last few months.  Our family has experienced two significant health challenges.  In both cases, the worst may be behind us, however, the stress has been significant and ever present.  And it continues.

At the best of times, November darkness and gloom weighs me down.  This November was not the best of times. 

The sunshine couldn’t have come at a better time.

But the days are short, and the sun is low – very low – in the sky.  And that has affected my runs.

I’ve been exploring near our home.  Trails I have never gone down before. Heights I’ve never reached.  Views I’ve never seen.

So often, over the last few weeks, I’ve turned a corner and found sunshine streaming through canopies of green.  Shade surrounds me, yet the light streams through, and, behind it, the sky is as blue as the air is cold.

The light that makes it through is indescribable and special.  It’s ethereal.  Almost holy.

It stops me in my tracks.  I breathe it in. 

And I stop running, pull my beat-up old phone out of my running vest, and take photos which don’t do justice to the beauty of what I’m experiencing.

As is so often the case, I’m writing this on a Sunday morning.  One floor down, my daughter plays her electronic piano and sings ‘The Twelve Days of Christmas.’  I’ve never heard her do that before.  Her singing is more precious to me than the light streaming through the trees.  More precious than anything.

The rain was late but it’s here now.  An ‘atmospheric river’ hammering the island.  The sun won’t be shining through the trees today.

Maybe that’s a good thing.  If it happened every day, it wouldn’t be special.  It wouldn’t be magical.  It wouldn’t remind me that light pokes through.

At Home

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A lot can happen in a short time.

I spent much of the last month away from home – almost two weeks in the Fraser Valley taking a course, and then a short stint on the west coast of Vancouver Island, as part of a team assigned to an investigation.

Wildfire smoke clogged the valley, the debris of millions of incinerated trees hung in the air for days on end.  The floating particles found their way into my lungs and permeated my clothes.  Every piece of clothing I wore outside reeked.

While I was in the valley, a police officer was murdered not that far away.  I was in a room full of cops when the news broke.  Grief hung in the air, as real, and more hurtful than the ash from the fires. 

Everyone on the course had many years, even decades, on the job.  The officer who was killed, had barely three – her career was in it’s infancy, her life, in many ways, just beginning.

When the course ended, I drove home.  The wildfire smoke did not dissipate until I reached the ocean, more than 100 kilometers away.  I took a ferry home.  I was so glad to see my family.

I took the same ferry again last week.  One of thousands who gathered for the slain officer’s funeral.  Her family, friends and colleagues spoke so well.  It was clear that she was a special and remarkable person. 

It was in the days between ferry rides that I was on the west coast of the island.  My unit investigates death.  The small town where this occurred is a tourist mecca.  However, we were not there as tourists.  We stood out everywhere we went in our pressed pants and dress shirts.  A few days in this town reinforced a truism of our work – that when someone dies suddenly and unexpectedly, the effects are wide, profound and long lasting.

Despite my observations, and my job, none of the things I write about above were about me.  My career, and my current job, put me in a position where I have the privilege of trying to play a part, however small, in trying to help people through dark times.

However, the things I write about above do affect me.  They continue to mold and shape me even though I’m over fifty years old, with more than two decades on the job. 

This morning I’m at home with my wife and daughter.  There’s coffee and juice, waffles, dolls and a Barbie movie.  A perfect Sunday morning.  Outside it’s grey, the fog hanging over the trees reminiscent of the wildflower smoke which hung over the valley.

Today I will run on trails, read whenever I have a spare moment, call my parents and hug my girls.  I’m thankful to be at home.

Tinged with Sadness

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Late last year someone challenged me to write a piece that wasn’t tinged with sadness.  I haven’t, and I’m not sure I can. 

Thanks to Susan Cain, I have a better understanding of why.  The same author who helped me understand being an introvert has now written ‘Bittersweet.’  Bittersweet is a way of being, “a tendency to states of longing, poignancy, and sorrow; an acute awareness of passing time.”

I’m bittersweet.  To the core.  I think about death daily.  Susan Cain reassures me that’s okay when she asks the question, “How should we live, knowing that we and everyone we love will die?”

Thinking about death daily means I think about life.  About the people, values and things that matter most.

About my daughter, who just had an epic Sunday morning meltdown, sparked by her fear of being alone in the home, when I took my coffee and laptop to the front porch.

A front porch I chose because it offers me beauty and silence, a cool breeze, flowers, and bees.

Epic meltdowns are not uncommon.  Our daughter is highly sensitive.  She feels joy intensely and sometimes rages uncontrollably.  I’m proud of her though.  Twice in the last two days she has used breathing – one minute of quiet deep breathing alone in her room – to calm herself and end her tantrums.

I’m trying to use breathing to better myself.  Over the last few months, I’ve started to meditate almost consistently.  The essence of that meditation is the breath.  Focusing on the breath, recognizing that thinking will interrupt that focus, and then returning to the breath.

Meditation is training for the mind.  It need not be religious or spiritual.  Its benefits are supported by science and by high performers – elite athletes, Navy Seals and Fortune 500 CEOs are meditating and they’re speaking very publicly about it.

I’m not searching for a Holy Grail.  I’m just trying to be a little bit better.  A better husband, father, cop, and human being.  And a little bit happier.  Maybe even ten percent happier.

All those things are possible. I feel it already from my brief foray into meditation.  I know it, because of books like ‘10% Happier’ by Dan Harris.  I’d known about this book for years and listened to Harris’s podcast occasionally.  But I only read the book a few weeks ago. 

I couldn’t put it down.  I recommend you pick it up and not put it down either.  Harris is a journalist who writes honestly about his career and the highs and lows of his life.  He holds nothing back as he takes you on his journey of inquiry, scepticism and ultimately commitment to a life that includes meditation.  It’s also a life that recognizes the impermanence of everything. Dan Harris thinks about death too.

I exercise daily – running and strength training.  Days off are rare.  I now understand that meditation needs to be a part of my daily routine.  The mind and body are not just inextricably linked, they are part of the same whole.

Over the last few weeks, I’ve spent a lot of time with Susan Cain and Dan Harris, diving into their books.  And then earlier this week, Cain appeared on Harris’s ‘Ten Percent Happier’ podcast.  It was one of those moments where I felt like my worlds were colliding in the best way possible.  If you have an hour, please listen.  If you have more time, get your hands on ‘Bittersweet’ and ‘10% Happier.’  Both books will enrich your life.  Read together, their power grows exponentially.

It’s tranquil on the front porch now.  My daughter has calmed down, she’s in the backyard with my wife, happy and calling for me, “Mr. Daryl … Dad.”  She’s excited about going swimming later today.

I’m sipping coffee.  Writing.  Content. Knowing that I can be both bittersweet and happier.