"OK, Boomer!" Not OK with Me

"OK, Boomer!" Am I the last person on earth to hear this term? This week, for me, it was one of those things where you become aware of a phrase for the first time, and then all of a sudden it's everywhere. Has been for most of 2019, apparently. Not sure where I've been hiding to have missed it. 

In case you, too, have been under a rock, "OK, Boomer," is a nasty little, condescending dismissal lobbed at us Baby Boomers by the late teen/early 20-something crowd, with a disdainful, petulant sneer, waving us away, intended to convey disgust as in, "Yeah, yeah. So's your old man!" or whatever saying you might be familiar with that means, "You're a tiresome old gasbag, you know nothing, I am a teen, and I know everything, and I'm not listening to you because you screwed up my chances of surviving on this planet. And besides I have to show you how to do ANYTHING on your iPhone." 

As insolent as this sass may be, part of me thinks these kids have a point. And they seem to be making themselves heard, what with their climate protests and devotion to Greta Thunberg. I can see how it must frustrate the heck out of them to clash with climate change deniers and endure endless images on social media of glaciers melting and plastic straws lodged up sea turtles' nostrils. Frustrates me too. 

But the other part of me wants to smack somebody. Don't give me, "OK, Boomer!" Our generation deserves more respect than that, dammit, and things are just not that simple. 

Or as I heard an interviewer ask a teen at an earth rally in Montreal, "What about the gas heat for your house this winter?" To which the clever clogs replied, "I'd rather be cold than dead." Oh, that's smart. Try it at -20 degrees Celsius for a couple of days, kiddo. You'll be glad mom and dad paid the utility bill and didn't chop up your bedroom set for firewood. I'm not saying things don't have to change. I'm just saying that not every one of us boomers is solely responsible for the mess the planet is in. Okay, maybe we are.

Kids are supposed to rebel against their elders. It's their birthright. I get it. I'm sure we had equivalent eye-rolls or "Honestly, mother, can you hear yourself?" phrases that raised our folks' blood pressure several notches.

What makes me want to scream is the following: Who do they think started the causes they are crusading for now? WE DID! THE BABY BOOMERS! Maybe even our parents were on the forefront! 

OUR generation:

Started an environmental movement in the 1970s.

Burned our bras for women's liberation and equality.

Protested a war. 

Some marched for civil rights.

Ditched our parents' music for rock and roll, folk and protest songs, and R&B.

Began to stand up to #MeToo situations that lurked in the work place.

Became thoughtful about where our food was coming from.

Changed our eating habits — some even embraced plant-based diets way back in the day.

Recycled. Car-pooled. Composted.

Grew our own veggies.

When it comes right down to it, I am actually glad the youth of today are taking up the torch for the environment and other causes. They've got the energy and drive, and seem to feel a sense of urgency that we Boomers can't seem to muster anymore. We're tired out, for gosh's sakes! For the last 40 years or more, we've been working, saving, planning for retirement. Most have been raising families. We've been sorting trash into the proper recycle bins. Maybe we've bought fuel efficient vehicles or taken public transit. We yell at each other, "Turn the light out if you're not in that room!" We turn the thermostat down at night. We can only accomplish so much against corporate profits and government inaction. Your turn, kids. Go out and make it a better, vegan, plastic-free, alternate fuel world.

Just don't give me, "OK, Boomer," because you think we've let you down. We're still fighting the good fight. And we're not in the nursing home yet. When we are, we want the heat turned up to a comfortable temp. You will too. One day. 

Sweet Nothings

As the days grow shorter, we enter, sweetly, into everyone's favourite time of year —— Candy Season. 

Things kick off at Hallowe'en with secret stashes of bite-sized Snickers. December's high holy days of peppermint bark, rum balls, and macaroons melt into Valentine's sampler box of assorted creams. And we don't emerge from the sugar coma until we've bitten off the chocolate Easter bunny's ears. By April, If we're lucky, our blood sugar A1C will just squeak in under the diabetes threshold of 7.0, "Yes! My body can still make its own insulin!"

We get all spring and summer to detox, ready to start anew when October rolls around again. Will we ever learn? Not likely. 

What is it with our sweet tooth, anyway? 

Preferring sweet over bitter is in our DNA. It's self defense, passed down across the aeons from our prehistoric ancestors. Babies learn to distinguish between the pleasantly sugary sensation of mashed carrots — a biological mechanism that helps them avoid potentially toxic substances — like, say, mashed turnips. From there It's a slippery slope to Cap'n Crunch and Froot Loops. 

According to my research, the term, "sweet tooth" dates way back to the 1300s — (you could say it is an idiom that is "long in the tooth," ha ha) — a reference that meant food was "toothsome" or tasty — i.e. sweet to the palate. 

Clearly, we come by our love of sugar naturally. Kids grow up believing that candy is their birthright. As adults, we lap up headlines about chocolate being good for us like it's the only good news on Planet Earth. Even our language is sprinkled with candied phrases: sweet talker, sugar coated, sugar Daddy, sugar pill, short and sweet, your own sweet time, a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, sugar buzz, a sweet deal, as sweet as pie, like taking candy from a baby — which I think might be harder than it sounds.

Children are supposed to love candy, aren't they? Everybody does. Right? Not this kid. I was the oddball who couldn't give two hoots about Hallowe'en loot. Sure, it was fun to go out and collect it like all the other little hooligans in the neighbourhood. But I was only playing along, feigning my glee about the eventual sugar OD. And the next day at school, when kids would groan about their stomachaches and glucose-induced hangovers, I'd be like, all smug. By January, my bagful of unwrapped candy (nothing came wrapped in those days) would be stuck to the side of the breadbox where it got stuffed on November 1st. Inside, the jaw breakers, licorice whips, candy corn, and Bazooka gum would congeal into one sticky, rock hard lump of crystallized sugar, looking like a neon geode from the Cenozoic era. My mother would throw it in the trash.

I grew out of that phase. Now I can put away a mini Coffee Crisp or Kit Kat with the best of them.

These days chocolate bars and Smarties come in hygienic little wrappers with no expiry dates. If you bought the Hefty Pak for your Trick or Treaters, I bet you saved some for yourself. ("One for the kiddies. Two for me.") You could easily indulge your sugar habit until candy cane season. 

At our house, we hand out toothbrushes. Trick or Treat, kids! The candy is for MEEEEEE! Bwa-hah-hah-hah-hah!

Happy Hallowe'en! 

For the Birds

We put up a bird feeder this week. Suddenly, this is our whole life. 

Birds must use some kind of social media — tweets, I imagine — because the back yard was all a-Twitter within minutes of the feeder going up. It was like opening weekend at an-all-you-can-eater with happy hour specials. 

Juncos were the first to arrive. Polite groups of four to six, taking turns, lined up on a nearby perch, waiting for their table to be called before swooping in to nosh on a seed or two. They're the kind of birds that would never exceed 10 items in the grocery express aisle. 

Nuthatches are more inclined to the dine-and-dash approach, elbowing each other, grabbing their seed, then going back for seconds. Chickadees take their time, checking out the bill of fare as though ordering at a food truck. Fox Sparrows use the feeder like a Tim Horton's drive-through. Raggedy flocks of Bushtits come marauding in like a pack of chattering teenagers at lunchtime descending on the high school cafeteria. 

Everybody scatters when the Steller's Jay rambles in. This sleek, shiny blue, pompadoured Fonzarelli of birds, sits in the feeder tray as if he's in a souped-up Thunderbird at a 1950s drive-in diner, intimidating the other guys, and doing his best to impress the girls. 

I'm telling you, it's non-stop action out there. And non-stop demand for seed! MORE seed! WE WANT MORE SEED! Talk about needy. The Mr dishes up daily servings of hulled sunflower seeds, and the birds sit and watch, waiting, eye-balling him, "Hurry up, Mister!" He feels like they might just land on him before he's done refilling the trays. Retirement is supposed to be a transformational stage in life, but I told him, I didn't expect he'd turn into St Francis of Assisi!

Meanwhile, the Hummingbirds lounge around the Nectar Cocktail Bar as though it's their neighbourhood watering hole. I'm making simple syrup twice a week to keep up with their drinking habits. Bunch of nectarholics if you ask me.

This is not the first time we have put food out for our feathered friends. In previous days, we experienced some issues with a certain rodent whose name does not rhyme with "house" and swore we'd never feed birds ever again. But now that the news about declining bird populations has become so distressing, we thought we should do our bit to help them stay fed and healthy. We consulted a wild bird supply store and learned about proper culinary techniques, and bought the gourmet food, and — so far, so good — no rodentia. 

Squirrels are few in this area, so we haven't needed the baffle attachment yet. I guess squirrels can't be all that bright if a cone shape collar stumps them. ("Huh! I'm baffled!")

We have, however, attracted some cats. They slyly hide under the hedge where they salivate over our avian carte de jour. I am happy to report no incidents thus far. At least, not to my knowledge, because when I shoo the felines away, I have yet to see any tell-tale feathers hanging from a kitty's lips. ("What? What did I do?" says the cat with righteous indignation.) 

The feeder is conveniently located directly opposite the kitchen window. Now our life revolves around our Birdie Bistro — filling it, watching the feeding frenzy, talking about the birds that visit, talking TO them, enjoying the show.

It's the most fun a retiree can have without getting up from the breakfast table.

Seasonal Affected Disorder? OR How I'm Learning to Cope with Eco-Anxiety

Who doesn't like to wake up on a summer day when the weather is fine? ME!

Oh, I exaggerate. Yes, I get up and repeat my mantra, "Another lovely day!" as I open the window blinds to let in the sunshine. And I thank our Maker that I'm here to see the sky and the trees and the forest and feel the breeze and marvel at an eagle soaring overhead. We are so lucky to live here and it has been an ideal summer. But inside, I am screaming, "Why doesn't it RAIN?!?!" 

We got back to BC after 20 years away with the memory in my brain from when we lived here, once upon a time, when ALL IT DID WAS RAIN. Relentless, soggy days that only subsided in August when the sun would come out for one whole lunar phase, and then it would rain again. I loved that drippy climate. This is the Rain Forest after all. Or it used to be. We haven't had significant precip since May. 

"There's been a change in the weather. There's been a change in the sea," goes the old song, "From now on there'll be a change in me." That change in on our formerly "Wet Coast" is the stark reality of climate change and I'm freaking out about it. 

I had heard about "eco-anxiety" and so I looked it up on the internet. It's a thing. Health professionals are reporting an alarming increase in cases of climate change-induced angst. Seems I am not alone. Perhaps you have it, too. A lot of people are in deep despair over how to save the planet, reporting to their therapists utter frustration over the lack of action at the highest levels (where it might count for something); panic-striken that we will all soon be toast. Not the cheeriest of thoughts! (Sorry to be Debbie Downer in my "humour" blog.)

The majority of articles on the subject of How to Overcome Your anxiety About Climate Change, repeat the same prescription over and over again. You'll feel better if you take action in your own little corner, they say. Drive less. Eat only plants. Take shorter showers. Recycle. Give up plastic. Blah, Blah, Blah. All good things, but not much help to calming the frantic among us. 

I already have OCD about recycling. I switched from grocery store plastic bags to reusable, mesh bags for gathering veg and fruit. I am a friend to bees. The Mr. and I are even talking about replacing our lawn with an eco-friendly landscape.

Even with all that, there's only so much a person can do. Bamboo toothbrushes, for example?  Just too goofy.

But some action is better than none. Right? Have these activities reduced my nerves about Nature? No!

That's the thing. These small measures seem so insignificant when the Amazon is burning, the glaciers are melting, and the Western Red Cedar forest here in BC is slowly dying. Again, sorry to be such a bummer.

But wait! One article I read did give me some hope. The take-away from it is this: A.) accept the human condition that we will all be dust one day. Seriously, this is a comforting thought in the "live for today, because who knows about tomorrow" context. And, B.) pursue an environmental initiative that makes sense to you. You could become an activist, like that impressive teenager from Sweden. Or you could aggressively lobby politicians. Or, this caught my attention: you could make art. 

How can that help, you ask? Here's how: focussing on art-making brings you into the present (thus relieving the anxiety) so you become conscious of the beautiful day — or the rain, whenever it comes. And, this is where it gets interesting, your art might speak to someone else.

Here's a great example: when I was in Fine Arts at university in the 90s, my printmaking professor said that her work was about our relationship with nature, particularly at the intersection of art and science. An amazing installation she did in a gallery rotunda consisted of hundreds of large lithographs on paper, hung from the high atrium ceiling right down to the floor, totally surrounding the viewer, fixed only by the top edges so that they fluttered and activated the space. The images depicted the myriad microscopic organisms that live in soil. Invisible to us except under powerful microscopes, these wondrous, tiny beings were brought to our attention by her art. It opened my eyes. I have never looked at "dirt" in the same way again — everything is teeming with life.

So, the weather has changed, and so has the sea, but "the change in me" is trying once again to face the blank canvas. And to stay in the present, aware, absorbing what is all around and still beautiful. And when I moan about dying trees, the Mr. points out to me, "Yeah, but look at the ones that are alive."

Nice to be Home

July 1, 2019 — our first Canada Day since moving back. 

We left Canada in September, 1999, to live in Buffalo, New York. It was June, 2009 when we moved to Dayton, Ohio. And then in September 2018, we returned to BC.

When asked, we have explained how we got here to countless numbers of people. The conversation goes something like this:

"Where are you from?"

"We live in Nanaimo. But we haven't been here long."

"Oh, where did you move from?"

"Ohio."

"OHIO!!!! Wow! What the heck made you move HERE of all places?" You see, it's a stretch for some to understand why Americans might have chosen Nanaimo. It is not a big city nor is it a hot spot for immigration, like Vancouver is, and let's face it, our generation of Canadians grew up with an inferiority complex where the US is concerned.  

So, we go on to assure them that we are, in fact, Canadians, born in Winnipeg, and lived in Vancouver for 20 years, and then lived in the US for nearly 20, and now we're retired, but we could no longer afford houses in Vancouver or Victoria, and neither city seems quite the right fit for us anymore, but we have always loved the west coast, so we decided on central Vancouver Island, and Nanaimo is very nice and quiet and we love living here, so close to everything and especially the ocean, and we can be on a beach within 10 minutes. 

It's a mouthful, but does the job. The usual reply is, "Huh." 

Other questions sometimes come up, such as, "Are you happy to be back in Canada?" "Does it feel different living here again?" "Will this be a special Canada Day for you?"

The answer? All of the above.

Don't get me wrong! We loved our time "across the line," (as my parents called it.) We had amazing adventures, met wonderful friends, rubbed elbows with so many interesting people, traveled around the country, saw superb shows, had rewarding careers, and led full lives. What's ironic is that I truly perfected my Canadian identity during the years we lived in the States. All of a sudden I became an avid hockey fans. I took Tim Bits to parties. I relished being able to pronounce French words correctly — a language that seems to  stump Americans. I explained "poutine" and "parliament" and "Don Cherry" and "curling" and "Nanaimo Bar" and "Butter Tart" and "Winnipeg" to whoever asked. I made it my mission to correct anyone that called them "Canadian Geese" — "No, no the plural is Canada Geese." I was proud to fly the Maple Leaf off our front porch each Canada Day. The Mr and I stood out because we were curiosities — different, a bit exotic — and therefore at least a little interesting.

That "otherness" has melted away now that we are back in the True North. We are as ordinary and common as Canadian Tire money or a three room group at the Brick. We blend into the furniture again.

That's what is different. That's why it feels special. We belong.

It's good to be home.

Going Nowhere Fast, Slowly

You've heard of slow dancing. Slow lanes. Slow cookers. Slow pokes. But have you heard of the Slow Movement?

I read about this fad in a trendy magazine at the hair salon — you know —where you get ALL the best information. As the name implies, the Slow Movement prescribes an unhurried pace rather than constant rushing around. Being "Slow" is to experience life in a thoughtful way. To drink in its pleasures. To relish. To delight and appreciate. You get the idea.

"Slow" has come to be applied to all kinds of activities: Slow Food. Slow Cinema. Slow Gardening. Even Slow Sex (and who's going to say no to that one?)

So, here's the thing! Retirement is the very definition of Slow! Ever since we rounded the corner into our golden years, the Mr and I have been totally crushing the Slow Movement. (And slow movement doesn't mean you need to boost your daily dose of Metamucil. Although, at our age, what could it hurt?)

Heck, our whole day is slow! We linger over breakfast. Do the crossword. Watch the Today Show. Step outdoors holding a coffee mug. Just stand there. Ask ourselves, "Well. What ARE we going to do today?" Bliss.

Now that we are experts on the subject, I am happy to share some tips on Slow Retirement for those of you who are poised to exit the work force. Or maybe you are already out there collecting your pension. Use these bits of wisdom as a check list to get you back on track. You, too, can achieve the ultimate Slow experience. 

Top Five Slow Retirement Tips:

5. Pace yourself. One major activity per day is enough. We find that taking a shower AND cleaning our glasses is really too much for one day. Save something for tomorrow. It gives you hope.

4. Schedule naps. You know you want to. So go ahead and lie down, for heaven's sake! And don't wimp out with a toss cushion and a light blanket on the couch! Crawl into bed! Fluff up your pillows! Pull up the covers! Sleep! Perchance to dream! Pick your own favourite time, but we like the 4:00/4:30 time slot. That way, when we wake up, it's already Wine O'clock! 

3. Keep moving. But don't overstrain yourself. There is a reason that Tai Chi is so popular with oldsters. It is positively glacial! But if that isn't your cup of Chai, then peruse your local Rec Center catalogue for 60+ programs. Yoga. Zumba. Lawn Bowling — which, let's face it, has been the Gold Star Standard of seniors' activities for generations. Personally, I enjoy a old folks' Sculpt and Tone class — go-at-your-own-pace, low-impact. Be warned, though: these sessions are usually set to Oldies play lists. It's fun to relive the 50s, 60s, and 70s, but I'd argue that Queen's "Another One Bites the Dust," isn't the best selection for a bunch of old ladies. 

2. Find folks in your own age group to chat with. It doesn't take long to spot retirees. Snoozing at the symphony. Lined up for eye-tests at the Department of Motor Vehicles. Checking out the hearing aid display at the Wellness Fair. Fingering through a wallet full of loose coins at the grocery check out to "give the right change." Ordering discount appetizers for dinner at any Happy Hour anywhere. Actually buying a real book at Chapters. The Mr enjoys striking up conversations with other old guys at Home Depot. They can be found wandering the aisles checking out drill bits and barbecue brushes. If you see someone in a Tilley hat at the Home Depot, you know you've found a pensioner. The question isn't, "ARE you retired?" It's "WHEN did you retire?" The hat renders the first question moot. 

1. Learn everything you can about your various health problems. This is really Advanced Slow Retirement. Performed in a loud voice at your local coffee bar, you will narrate your personal health care drama in juicy, jaw-dropping detail to an astonished audience of new pals (see #2 above.) Hours will go by as they do likewise. At the end, the winner is the story-teller who evokes the most disgust, as in, "I had no idea that could even happen to a person!" 

    

See? You are going to have such fun taking it slow. 

Now, you will have to excuse me. It's my day to clean my glasses. I'm pacing myself.

Britannia (TV) Rules!

I am obsessed with British television shows. 

My infatuation did NOT start with "Downton Abbey," thank you very much. It dates way back, decades earlier, when "Upstairs Downstairs" first aired in 1971. My Mum and I watched religiously on Sunday evenings, glued to all 68 episodes of this brilliant program over the five seasons that it ran. I loved the Bellamy family upstairs as much as I adored the servant "family" below stairs who ran operations at the posh 165 Eaton Place townhouse in the Belgravia neighborhood of Central London. Their story arcs spanned from 1903, the early Edwardian era, through the first World War, and on to the market crash of 1929. The concluding episode was unbearable to watch, it was that sad. I wept for days. 

Other sweeping-epic weepies got me going as well: "The Forsythe Saga," "The Jewel in the Crown," and "Brideshead Revisited." 

Meanwhile, Dad preferred the mysteries, police procedurals, and lawyer shows. He got a big bang out of the eponymous, "Rumpole of the Bailey," which featured a portly, rumpled barrister triumphantly arguing cases at the Old Bailey, while, at home listening, selectively, to "She Who Must be Obeyed," his wife. It's my theory that Dad saw Horace Rumpole as a reflection of his own true self. 

"Maigret" was also popular at our house. Then came "Morse," Agatha Christie's "Poirot" and "Miss Marple," "Campion," PD James' "Inspector Dalgliesh," "Hetty Wainthrop Investigates," "Inspector Lynley," "Foyle's War," and my much-adored, "The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes," starring, Jeremy Brett, the actor who embodied every eccentricity that the character demanded. 

These well-crafted series begat contemporary programs that the Mr and I have relished: "Prime Suspect," "George Gently," "Vera," "Broadchurch," "Endeavour," "Inspector Lewis," "Hinterland," "Shetland," "Scott & Bailey," "Unforgotten," "Grantchester," and the clever, classy, ever-fascinating, "Sherlock," with that gorgeous Benedict Cumberbatch as Holmes. 

(I do understand and identify with you obsessed devotees of "Poldark," "Dr Who," and "Outlander," although those shows never quite caught my fancy, what with all that raucous swashbuckling, time travel, and Jacobite uprising. But I respect your devotion.) 

I prefer the mellower dramas that brought English literature to life: "Pride and Prejudice," "Emma," "Wuthering Heights," "The Bronte Sisters," "Miss Potter," and "Jeeves and Wooster." And of course, "The Tudors," "Victoria," and "The Crown," to name a few "historical" dramas, give you just about all you need to know about British history.

And who can forget comedies, like: "Monty Python's Flying Circus," "Fawlty Towers," "Hancock's Half Hour," "The Two Ronnies," "The Vicar of Dibley," "Mr Bean," "Blackadder," "The Thin Blue Line," and "Keeping up Appearances"? And more recently: "The Office," "Extras," "Doc Martin," and "Mum." Hilarious — especially if you actually "get" British humour.

Gosh, I bet I've watched all nine seasons of, "As Time Goes By," at least nine times. But that's the nature of obsession. I love to imagine that someone as lovely as its star, Dame Judi Dench, is happily on her second marriage, residing in a smart townhouse in Holland Park, pouring a proper cup of tea for a proper sit down and proper chin wag.

So many British TV shows stoke my imagination. Sometimes, in my mind's eye, I am an amateur sleuth, like one of those little old ladies in cardigans who possess high deductive reasoning and go around solving crimes that baffle even the most seasoned of police inspectors, all of whom are conflicted individuals with drinking problems and relationship issues. In this daydream of mine, I live in a charming London flat near St. James Park. My breakfast table sports a toast rack and a Brown Betty teapot. After a hard day of sleuthing, I meet my mates at the local pub to quaff a swift half with a bag of crisps. Or I make egg and chips for my afternoon tea — or maybe even get a curry take-away. I drive a vintage Mini Cooper along hedgerows in the Lake District. I make furtive calls from red phone booths. I pull my collar up against the wind howling off the moors, and totter along cobblestone streets amid thatched cottages in the Cotswolds. I gaze at the English Channel as the surf crashes against white cliffs. I take romantic train journeys up to Scotland, ordering tea and scones, or gin and tonic, or Scotch rocks, with Holmes' observations tucked away at the back of my mind, "It is my belief, Watson, founded upon my experience, that the lowest and vilest alleys of London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than the smiling and beautiful countryside." 

And so it would seem from watching Brit TV! Every sweet little country village has a murder per week. At least! There's a lot of that going round, you know. Blimey! 

Cups of strong tea with heaping spoonfuls of sugar soon put things to right again, though. And everything is tickety boo in the end.

Or at least that's how things are on British television. 

Four Letter Words -- OR -- A Word Nerd in Dreamland

WORD:

W is for weird, wisp, water, world, wonder, whisker, whisper, wait, watch, witty, walk, winter……

O is for — Oh! Sorry. Ha ha. I drifted off there. You see, I'm trying a "fall asleep" technique a friend told me about.

Here's how it works. Once you get into bed, (or if you wake up in the middle of the night), think of a four letter word that has no repeating letters. Then, in your head, list all the words you can think of that start with each letter, in turn. Such as, let's say you choose the word "WORD." You'd go through W, then do O, then R, then D.

The inventor, a BC-based researcher at Simon Fraser University named Luc Beaudoin, calls it a "cognitive shuffle." He came up with this word-play sleep theory way back in April 2017. It has since been featured on CBC News, in the New York Times, and in Oprah's "O" magazine.

I'm loving this exercise. Most nights, I fall asleep before even getting around to the second letter in my Word of the Night. Or, if my brain has been overdrive all day, I might complete a whole word and then start on another. I find this fun. I go to sleep happy. 

It's a little like meditation. My mind can concentrate on the task for a short time. Take R, for example. My list might be: radical, radiate, rascal, repetition …. and then my thoughts will drift away on totally unrelated topics — a review of the day, worries about tomorrow — you know the drill. And then, I'll interrupt myself and remind my crazed brain to go back to the word list. Oh, yeah, R: rhyme, rhythm, room, rumor, rude…..rude, yeah, that so and so waitress today was so rude……alright, back on track, Lesley. Okay. R: rerun, rotten, rival, roof…..

The whole idea is to stop your thought rollercoaster. And it works! I relax and let words come into my head by free association: relax, rest, …..and… I'm sleep. 

Finding the right word to get under way can be tricky. Here are my tips to get you started:

Avoid conjugating complex, multi-syllabic words. We all know you're smart, but this isn't the best time to show off your vocabulary. For instance, O can get complicated: obvious, obsession, obstruct, obviate, obfuscate, obliterate, opinion, osmosis. These are brainy, word-nerd playgrounds, but at 3 in the morning, you don't need to be doing mental gymnastics. The goal is sleep, remember? Stick with: open, over, owl, ohm...

Also bad choices are clunkers with K and Q: kite, kazoo, kayak, quack, quake. These shake your brain (and rattle your nerves. See what I did there?) 

I haven't found much joy in Z either. Which is ironic, given that the universal cartoon symbol for sleep is, "ZZZZZZZZZZ." But, really, who actually knows more than a handful of words that start with Z? Zero, zebra, zoo, zylophone… no, wait, that start's with an X. Forget Z and X. Y isn't much better — except for yawn, which is, of course, suggestive and useful. 

A riff on any letter could dredge up distressing words. Beware danger zones. For example, here's D: dread, dumb, dumber, dull, dismay, defective, distraught, dastardly, despicable. See? Bad words happen! Before you know it you're all stressed out and depressed. Try to grab more affirmative words and let them float into your head, like: drowsy, dozy, dream, drift, dove, dolphin, daffodil….

In fact, it's best to stay away from hot button words altogether. You could be going alone peacefully with P: posies, poppies, puffy, pet, puddle, purple, perfume, pillow… and suddenly POLITICS pops into your noggin. That's gonna keep you up all night!

I find that it's better to feed your brain simple, affirmative words with friendly letters in them.  

Try something like CALM. C is for comfy, cozy, cupcake, cuddle……A is for amiable, amble, angel, art, awesome…. L is for love, lamb, loaf, lull, lullaby… Asleep yet? Aren't going to make it to M, are we? 

Some of my favorite sleepy words contain B. Bed, blankets, biscuit, baby, banana, bounce, boat, bobbin, bird, bee, butterfly….ahhh, yes, beautiful butterflies.…floating…flitting....drifting….getting…sooooo….sleepy. 

Night night! 

Finding your Bliss in the Forest

What's the first image that comes to mind when I say, "Forest Bathing"? 

Outdoor showers at a swanky resort spa? The Viagra couple in side by side outdoor tubs? Nudists cavorting through sylvan streams? 

Oooo, sorry! None of the above! Although, here in BC, any one of those sights would surprise no one. 

It does involve forests, but the "bathing" part is a metaphor for soaking in the therapeutic effects that woodlands dispense if you are inclined to absorb them. 

Forest Bathing is the western term for the Japanese practice of Shinrin-yoku — a form of therapy that is catching on here in the wet coast Rain Forest. And why not? We BCers have long been known for embracing health trends in self-care. And forests we got. There are even courses and guided sessions available to enrich your forest experience. Do I hear you snickering? Laugh not! Forest Bathing is not the sole domain of Eco Nuts and Hippy Tree Huggers.

You might be thinking, "I already commune with nature! That's the whole point of going on a hike, isn't it?" Ah, but, Forest Bathing is not hiking. Reaching a destination is not the goal. Think of it rather as a walk in the woods, with meditation, and pine aromatherapy. The point is mindfulness — truly connecting with nature through slow, deliberate exercises to become still and aware. Absorbing the surroundings with all your senses. 

You don't even have to amble deep into the woods to achieve inner peace. All it takes is being immersed in a green glade. Which makes it perfect for those of us with, you know, bad knees who don't amble very far from the nature trail parking lot.

Sure, anybody can do it. But, is everybody suited for it? Me, for example? Not so much.

Oh, I am "mindful" in forest settings. Mindful of DANGER. Being surrounded by trees makes me very nervous. "What was that noise? Was that a bear? What is there is a cougar? How long is this trail anyway? Does this loop back? Are we lost? We're lost! I didn't bring trail mix!" All quite counterproductive to achieving calm. 

Close my eyes to meditate? In a forest? Not for a second! That would be the exact moment the Big Bad Wolf or an axe murderer would leap out from behind a Douglas Fir. I might be able to handle Forest Bathing if I could do it from the above mentioned outdoor bath tub at a swanky resort. 

So, the next time you're out there on a wooded path with your arms wrapped around a 400 year old cedar, and a mountain lion eats you for lunch, don't say I didn't warn you. Otherwise, may you find bliss with your forest therapy.

Namaste. 

Bird Brain

Some are born birders. Some achieve birding. Others have birding thrust upon them. 

How does one fit into this scheme? In possession of a true talent? As a natural naturalist? Or more humbly as a mere "bird-watcher"? A casual observer? 

Keeping a lonely, silent watch for avian activity this weekend, I pondered these questions. You see, for the first time, I became a participant in the "Great Backyard Bird Count." Binoculars at the ready. My worn copy of "Roger Tory Peterson Guide to Western Birds" at my side. My eyes glued to the skies and tree branches.

More on that in a moment.

In 1998, by the Cornell Lab of Ornithology and the National Audubon Society, launched the GBBC, in a project they call a "citizen science." Bird enthusiasts from all over the world are welcome to count the birds they see and feed the data into the GBBC web site. Numbers compiled from this one weekend help to inform an overall snapshot of the abundance of birds, their migrations, and the distribution of the world's avian population. I counted birds on all four specified days, February 15-18, watching from my living room window, walking the beach, and strolling through parks. In all, I recorded 16 species — and it might have been so many more if it hadn't been so darned chilly. Birds that came visiting when it was warmer a few weeks ago just weren't showing up. I'm convinced the little bird brains flew back south to be counted elsewhere.

The global count for 2019 came in at 101,464 check lists submitted from 172 countries, 5,693 species identified, and 16,754,577 individual birds counted. As for me, out of that 101,464 lists, my ranking was 19,777. That's a feather in a newbie's cap, thank you very much! 

So, how did I get started as a bird watcher, you ask? I came to birding via my mother. She was tickled pink when anything more interesting than a House Sparrow would show up at our bird feeder. Any calm Sunday afternoon could be shattered — repeatedly — by Dad calling out, "There's your hummingbird, Mother!" and she'd be all a-flutter, flying to the window to catch a glimpse of the tiny quivering creature sipping from a red plastic flower on a feeder she had filled with sugar water. 

She shared her ornithological interest with a friend, telephoning each other if they saw something unusual. We began to tease her about Bird Alerts — that she and her pal would be called out, wearing pith helmets and khaki Dian Fossey outfits, carrying giant, high-powered binoculars, and driving a yellow Volkswagen bug with police siren atop, "whoop, whoop, whooping," as they arrived at rare sightings. 

Mum's enthusiasm— and mine — grew as we learned the identity of our backyard visitors from a bird book. I was a teen when I started my Life List. A nerdy activity, but there you have it — I was a nerdy kid. But now, after all these years of experience, I can name dozens of feathered friends, and it is still a thrill to spot a bird that I can't identify until I've looked it up in my Peterson. It gives me great satisfaction to enter a check mark in the tattered book's index. 

Some folks are way more obsessive. They travel the world in pursuit of birds. Their Life Lists are throughly checked off. They may even risk life and limb on bird watching expeditions to capture a rare sighting. These are the Birders. They may even pursue it competitively as shown in a feature-length film, "The Big Year," which came out in 2011. Based on a true story about three friendly rivals who set out to see who could identify the most birds in one year, it's a race to be named Best Birder. That honor for the 2019 GBBC surely goes to a professional bird watching guide in Ecuador whose 918 reports totaled 1,152 species. Wow. I can't even count that high! 

I prefer the other type of bird watching — the meditative variety. In this model, the sight of a straggly, fluttering flock of Bushtits makes me giggle. A majestic Bald Eagle soaring overhead fills me with awe. A robin pulling a fat worm out of the garden warms my heart and makes me think of my mother. 

Bird watching is a way to connect with Nature. To slow down. To be thankful for the beauty and variety of all God's creatures. To instill wonder.

This weekend I counted birds.