As children, we often draw the same pictures day after day, carefully laying the same characters, buildings, animals, plants and colors on the page, as well as the same perspective. Psychologists can read into these drawings and identify distinct trauma, joys, tendencies and character traits. A psychology article explained that, when children draw people without placing their feet on the ground in the picture, it is an indication that they feel uprooted within their own family unit. Interesting.

Art is a revealing medium, but as much as there is a notion of perspective in the construct of a drawing, painting or sculpture, there must also be a sense of perspective in the interpretation of artistic creations. Art is a form of expression born of imagination, sensitivity, experience and memory. Perhaps the floating person on the drawing mirrors a deep sensation of levity in the artist; even a child artist. In the midst of dysfunction or hardships, something deep inside may exist, an unconscious yet tangible knowing that there is hope and joy within reach. Thus, the apparently troubled child reveals in each drawing the certainty of the lightness of being.

I remember a drawing I made in high school. I had always loved drawing trees, very specific trees, in fact. I rarely drew people. When I did, they were neutral, in the sense that one might not have been able to determine their gender. Every detail and moment of this particular drawing captured my full attention. It consisted of a large tree with strong roots on the left side of the page and a smaller one in the distance, on the right, to show depth. Giant drops of water formed on the ends of the branches of each tree. Within each drop, I had placed a person, sitting, arms around their knees, waiting to land somewhere. I have never forgotten this drawing.

I imagine a psychological analysis might uncover many truths about my adolescence or childhood. I often thought of this drawing and found distinct correlations, until I realized that I was thinking about it only in terms of a revelation of something necessarily bad or unfortunate. However, it was not. The drops were not tears and the people were not trapped. And the trees. Ha! The magnificent trees. Now I know who they are and I know with great certainty that what I had created on that page was a sort of pictogram of my innermost identity, years before this would be revealed to me.

I am not the troubled child who lived with alcoholic parents for twenty years. I am not even the French Canadian girl who grew up in suburbia. I am not my work, my place of birth or my outer appearance. I am the culmination of eons of life, a being that came to life not to be attached to its host family, but to move forward in time and move and interact and explore each moment of existence. I hold in my cells the memories of generations past, the knowledge of kinship with the trees and reptiles and every single living organism. I am not male or female. Gender is not about skirts and pants. It is merely a biological characteristic. During its evolution, the fetus adopts a genderless, reptilian shape. The reptilian brain remains a central part to our instinct and survival. The soul and memory do not understand gender.

I carry within memories of centuries ago. I feel close to some people instantly because, for a brief and poignant moment, I recall their faces, their profession, and their garments when we knew each other in 1192, before or since. I recall a rare, sunny afternoon in the Highlands when a neighboring clan destroyed us. I recall the screams, the slashed bodies, the stillness when they had moved on, satiated. I recall the oppression of the inquisition, the fear of the peasants and the day we were done laying stones on the streets of Paris, at Les Tuilleries. I remember historical details I have never learned about in school or books. Come to think of it, the drops from the trees were tears after all; tears of separation and pain from the passage through time; tears for the impossibility of turning back. This century is the most difficult of all, because we should know better by now and because so many do not remember.

Somewhere inside, we know what we truly are. This knowing comes forth through our preferences, our tastes, and our affinities with some people more than others, our art, and our words and in the ways we choose to adorn our bodies. Drawing floating people or wearing out-of-fashion clothes do not necessarily constitute a dysfunction. Instead, it might be a sign of personal clarity. Our essence seeks to be revealed in each doodle, garment and piece of jewelry, like a dream that was so profound that it becomes indistinguishable from reality. Or is it the other way around?

It is said that lucid dreaming can be attained by developing enough awareness that you can decide to look at your own hands while remaining in the midst of the dream. I am looking at mine now.

Slainte!

I entered first grade with the strange, for a seven-year old person, yet distinct notion that formal education would somehow fail to show me and my classmates how to live and how to fend for ourselves outside of set cultural parameters. “How could knowing how to spell serve me if I am lost in the woods?” I thought.

Thirty-eight years later, and over twenty-five of those fending for myself, have revealed both the truth and error of my original notions about education. This was confirmed, more recently, when I encountered a parent who expressed great concerns for two young sons and a daughter.

The children currently live with one parent, who insists on becoming the sole guardian and elected to home school, yet can barely meet the requirements of such an endeavor. The other parent fears not so much for their future acquired knowledge as for their ability to relate to peers in a healthy manner and exercise proper judgment in designing their own path. They are isolated and fear other children. They should read by now, but can barely spell their own names.

I used to know another family that had embraced a diligent home schooling regimen. A room in their house was designed to be the classroom and all four children spent a normal school day there, with one or the other parent providing a full day of lessons and discussions. These children were encouraged to participate in extra-curricular activities and free to choose to go to a conventional school instead, which they did at some point.

These different perspectives and circumstances provide much to consider. One type of learning experience is not better than the other. Both require balance and it appears that both require diligent focus on one central goal: the development of a well-rounded person who is curious about the world, interested in others and able to live with respect and dignity toward self and others. This is the true requirement of education.

I am certain that many schools provide a setting where this goal is the central mission. I have often heard myself and others blame the school system for not providing complete education, but now I believe that education is never complete. The only thing that can be complete is our willingness to continue learning and how readily we accept that what we learn is to be placed at the service of society as well as our own.

A diploma is not necessarily required in order to fulfill this goal. Perhaps our belief that good grades and diplomas are the goal is the most detrimental belief of all. It robs education of its wonder and it robs many of the desire to learn for the sake of learning. In truth, we need not learn so we can become someone with a specific career or title; we learn so that we may feed our minds with such diversity of knowledge and such passion for specific topics that we naturally develop the skills we will bring into the world and share with neighbors and colleagues. For we participate in the making and success and joy of a culture in truly great ways when we effortlessly do what we are good at doing.

Education teaches us more about the endless possibilities of the self than it teaches theories or processes. Education is a gift. It can be acquired in the classroom, as an apprentice, online, in books, at free public lectures, at seminars and workshops, at retreats and conferences. It does not necessarily require a diploma; it only requires for one to show up and for those who are able to encourage and support them to do so in the same way and with the same fervor they might apply to encouraging a career path.

In fact, education is the beginning of the career path. It is the threshold, the gate to the knowledge and wonder that open yet other doors and lead to new, irresistible thresholds or, at the very least, the conviction that there is something worthwhile for us to do.

Slainte!

Someone on the radio was talking about knowledge in relation to rank. I believe the discussion topic pertained to the employee/employer relationship. In this relationship, there exists an underlying, and rarely challenged, hierarchy that permeates all aspects of business operations.

It is very similar to the landlord/peasant relationship, even today. In fact, modern political and business leaders do refer to citizens and subordinates as “peasants”. The term is even used in legal documents, as in “peasant clause”.

The speaker gave the example of the current crisis in Montreal hospitals. Emergency waiting rooms are crowded far beyond capacity. Administrators ponder possible solutions behind closed doors. “Has anyone ever thought of asking the janitor’s opinion?” asked the speaker, indicating that this person might be able to express a totally different point of view, and may in fact have the ability and intellect to recommend brilliant solutions based on first hand observations. Leaders are rarely first hand observers.

The discussion continued and evolved into a sort of nostalgia for “old ways”. The speaker reminded the radio host that in the context of early tribe there was no such hierarchy or injustice. Everyone discovered the world together and shared their experience and findings with equal authority. If a child had become sick after eating berries from a certain tree, on the edge of the settlement, he might share this with fellow tribesmen at mealtime, thereby providing essential information that was immediately available to everyone. Everyone could now avoid the berry in question.

As someone who has a great love and interest for tribal culture, I easily agreed with the speaker for a moment, until I realized the unlikelihood of repeating a similar scenario of cohesion over time. The reason is simple, or at least this is what became clear to me as I imagined being a member of a tribe, in the early times of civilization, and discovering the intricacies of taming the world along with my tribes-mates.

The moment one individual shares feedback about a plant, the relationship of the entire tribe toward this plant changes, permanently. This, in turn, inevitably affects the relationship of tribesmen within the tribe. For instance, if I convey that I was able to extract a root with a stick far better than with my fingers, the entire tribe will begin to use a stick. This one modification to our original behavior has at least two consequences: Some will likely develop better root digging skills and some will instinctively begin to understand that by further modifying the digging tool it is possible to obtain more roots, faster, thus satisfying the very basic instinct to secure nutriments.

Already at that point, the original innocence of the tribe is forever “lost”. There can still be wonder and amazement at further developments and discoveries, but the brain is very quick at making analogies and using compound knowledge to adapt and to assess new situations. Thus, individual innocence is gone and so is the original shared innocence. Some will grow in understanding and knowledge faster than others, or with more ease. Some will lend a hand when they are more skilled at a task, thus becoming experts. Some will lead and some will follow. Some will be lazy while others will work hard and provide for them. The more skilled and able will feed the weak. This chain of events is inevitable. It is what has lead to today’s technologies and cultures.

I no longer believe in the dream of returning to the innocence of the tribe, nor is it necessary. Nor does it mean we are doomed or mislead, as I used to think. We simply need to understand that the notion of unity and cohesion still exists in the ways in which we relate to each other, outside and away from the tribe.

In every tribe, there are elders. Elders do not lead from a stance of superiority or rank; they lead because they have acquired the ability to look out for the well-being of every member of the tribe, without prejudice. They are the mediators, who seek information and knowledge from every member and guide the entire tribe into adopting new strategies or territories based on core knowledge. It is the sense of moving as one that is at the heart of the tribe model, not the leader. Everyone is a peasant in this model, even the leader.

The problem is not that we no longer behave as a tribe; it is that we do not think as a tribe, as one body. What makes sense for business does not necessarily serve the people.

Slainte!

Everybody should work part-time only. We should reconsider our current understanding that a “normal” workweek is comprised of a 40-hour contribution to an employer. Employers themselves might reconsider their commitment.

The 40-hour workweek entered our culture with the automotive industry assembly line. Granted that jobs in almost any field are truly a form of assembly line, this does not mean the model is still viable today, at least not for everyone. High-productivity does not have to mean full-time commitment and commitment does not have to mean at the expense of other talents and aspirations. Yet we are so afraid to loose the full-time paycheck and benefits. Would it really be a loss?

Loss, in itself, does not exist. We feel loss when we focus on our attachment to circumstances and believe that any variation or change will be painful or undesirable. Yet how many people have lost their jobs only to discover that they had gained a new perspective and, especially, the freedom to expand their horizons.

It is not our employers’ fault. Our daily responsibilities and the sense of security they provide often contribute to a sense of attachment to circumstances. We dream of learning a new trade or craft, but fear losing our identity in the process since we identify with our current career path. We are a mechanic or administrator or carpenter. We fear being less in the eyes of spouses, neighbors and family if we announce that we only work part-time while learning to sew on the side, for example. Having this sort of freedom is almost arrogant, we think, and certainly irresponsible.

Responsibility to self also expands into responsibility toward our neighbors and the world. Ignoring a talent for fear of not fitting the accepted structure of the good person’s work life is just as bad as not giving our best on the job. It robs the world of constructive, creative action.

What would happen if our work culture were structured in such a way that seeking to develop skills and talents outside of our current job were encouraged? Instead of having separate employers pay specific groups of employees to do specific tasks, all employees would be interchangeable between job sites, offering and learning new skills, developing dormant talents and living their dreams. A global pool of moneys might provide salaries. Working full-time at one job would no longer be necessary since there would always be a team of skilled and dedicated individuals offering part-time work on a rotating basis and ensuring everything is done, perhaps attaining an even higher level of accomplishment and quality since everyone would be passionate about the task at hand.

A simpler version of this sort of system would be for current full-time employees to agree to take a cut in hours so that unemployed, qualified and dedicated workers may have a share of the experience and income. There is documented evidence that people who voluntarily or involuntarily cut their hours and develop other skills they had longed to develop are more productive, more efficient and more reliable employees, in addition to being happier and healthier. Likewise, skilled individuals can be top workers given the chance to participate actively in the workforce and earn their keep. Being included and involved feels good because it is good.

Any work or business is a group effort. This does not absolutely have to be limited to the group within an organization’s walls. The world is a group effort whose many talented, willing and eager participants do not quite dare to step outside of the box and do all they dream of doing. When we dare, however, or when circumstances change fast enough to shake us into a new reality, we often find that it is possible to strive outside of the box and that the notion or feeling of striving is not tied to a set schedule.

Of course, no one stops us from quitting our full-time jobs to become something else, run a personal business, hold five different jobs or take a year off to travel the world or watch the seasons go by. Likewise, this does not mean that working full-time is undesirable. To each his own, but we need not be attached to this model. In fact, no one says we are.

At each turn of each century, with each world or personal event and economic fluctuation, we reassess our lives and reshape the world with every little variation from the norm we naturally adhere to as we adapt to inevitable changes. It happens in spite of us. When we are ready. Even when we do not know that we are ready. Everybody longs to be fully realized. THIS is our true full-time job.

Slainte!

What happened? Almost every single culture tells the story of a teacher or prophet, a savior who bears Good News of love and hope. I believe some prophets are real and I believe some were imagined, but the result is the same. Worldwide, all stories of prophets bear one common thread: Someone who grasps how the world and human relations work warns us about our own wrongdoing toward others and repeatedly reminds us that good is at hand. It is a choice.

If this Savior is part of our mythology, what is the giant leap of faith that leads us to create entire media presentations that focus on war, violence, useless products that do not enhance our human relations, bad news and hopelessness for the celestial body we call earth. This makes no sense at all. Do we not want to remind each other of the magnificent things we are capable of instead?

We engage in a persistent battle against cancer, war, famine, drought, lack, obesity, death and the common cold. We design products that kill 99.9 % of bad germs, not thinking one second that these products also kill 99.9 % of the microscopic scavengers we need to fight disease, process ingested foods and maintain a strong, natural defense against common ailments. We place our faith in bits and pieces of news that focus on what is wrong and all manners of evil that may befall us, instead of focusing on the stories of those who have overcome these “evils” without losing their homes, health or sanity in the process.

They are all around us: Cancer survivors by the thousands, peacemakers by the thousands, uneducated turned businesspersons by the thousands, thieves turned humanitarians by the thousands, homeless turned apartment dwellers by the thousands. All of this happens every second of every day, but it only happens when someone stops long enough to notice, shift gear and decide to lend a helping hand, believe in possibilities and believe in the very basic ability to overcome.

In truth, there is no gap. We believe our prophets without evidence of their teachings and pronouncements. We are wired to believe, to trust, to embrace any notion that is presented with enough gusto to ignite our passion, or assuage our fears. It is not a gap; it is a twist in our thinking. Rising against something feels a lot like passion, but often it is rooted in fear and fear makes us feel threatened and self-centered. Passion, on the other hand, opens the imagination.

Every day, there are people who save the world from disease, famine, war and pollution. In interviews, every single one of them speaks the language of compassion. They do not say, “I fear for myself”; they say, “I fear for the world and the children of the world. What can I do?” These four words are the turning point, the key, because once we ask, “What can I do for others?” we initiate a wave of constructive actions that do not rob others of their rights, self-esteem or dignity. 

A product cannot do much for us on its own. A forecast of looming hardships or illness can have an impact on the mind and body that far outweighs the ravages of any disease. A disease, in itself, cannot touch the essence of a person. A war, in itself, cannot touch the essence of a person. A neighbor who shares his or her time and resources or a researcher who passionately seeks answers, can change the world. That is pretty good news.

Whether our mythology is based on established prophets or experts or our own imagination, we must consider the source of our beliefs. Prophets do not inspire disciples to listen by enumerating statistics regarding the likelihood of bad weather, bad health or bad relationships. Nor are they reporters or marketing gurus, seeking the best angle to illustrate a story. They are keen observers who study the world and explain it back to students so that they may have the necessary tools to overcome hardships without creating disaster, overcome conflict without resorting to fights and overcome weaknesses by choice.

Slainte!

We take the occasional dramas of life very seriously, and we should. It is important to decide how to react, what to choose, where to go, who to confide in and how to stand tall and live on. In the midst of a crisis, the world stops and we become its center. Actually, it is still spinning, and we are standing still, in the midst of a tornado. Any movement could catapult us miles away, into unchartered territory. Sometimes, this is the best way to discover new horizons.

In 1984, my mother and I lived together in a condo she had just acquired two years earlier when separating from my father. I was twenty years old and spent the greater part of each day at University. We had a good rapport. Her friends who, like her, were in the theater business, visited quite often and they were hilarious. At home, I grew up in an adult world, but a very colorful one, in spite of the excessive use of alcohol.

This eventually took my mother’s life. She died suddenly in September of that year. What next? My sister and I rented an apartment together. My dad had requested we live together for a year, perhaps thinking that as the youngest one I would need her guidance to get my feet back on the ground. What he did not know, and what I discovered with great surprise was that the wind of change had not tipped me over; it had shaken me into greater alertness. I sought my own apartment after six months.

I loved my new life. I lived alone with my cat, in a small one-room apartment. I loved returning to it after work each day. I had had to leave University one semester short of completion in order to buy my freedom, but it was a price well worth paying. I have no regrets.

I later often asked myself if I had been in denial at the time, but I find little evidence of this. Instead, it feels like an absolutely conscious and deliberate journey, an awakening. Yes, I was sad and missed my mother. Amazingly though, the little girl who used to cry the minute her mom was out of sight or delayed from work, even at the advanced age of twelve, felt very secure and certain that this outcome was the right outcome, ordained by some invisible scenario that was playing out exactly as it should. I had stepped into a new story and a new identity. Nothing more, and yet so much more.

This realization amazed me. I thought a normal person would feel devastated for the rest of her life at the loss of her mother and I occasionally felt guilty for not experiencing such feelings. However, I think the "me" who might have felt devastated had vanished in the instant I had to decide how to handle my life story from that point forward. Having the ability to choose also confers the ability to become.

It has been twenty-five years since my mother passed away. I have since lost my two closest life companions, two cats who shared nineteen and twenty-one years of their lives with me. I have since left a relationship, started over and experienced a layoff from a job I thought looked a lot like a career. This blew me away every time, only to realize that I was perfectly equipped to land wherever I landed.

I wonder if this is not a simple course of action everyone actually experiences to one degree or another. Sometimes, disasters shift our life path, sometimes it is only a mild discomfort or disenchantment that causes us to move on, effortlessly or by way of a temporary struggle. In reality, all the circumstances that throw us a mild or devastating curve are just that, circumstances. At every turn, we must decide on the rest of the course in much the same way as we might decide to bring an umbrella on a cloudy day. We decide with more or less urgency depending on our plans for the day and how heavy the rain appears to be.

Life is a constant readjustment of personality, belief, strength and focus. The degree of difficulty varies and shapes our response. We develop our personalities and skills by experiencing the entire mosaic of challenges and decisions so that in each instant we redefine what “I am” means for us. We may not be aware of the whole mosaic, or the bigger picture, in every moment. It becomes clear when we take stock and realize that the storm changed the landscape and dug a path we would not have otherwise taken. Thus, without the storm, we might have been lost.

Slainte!

I do not know what prompted me to talk about what follows tonight. Perhaps it surfaced naturally, as a result of today’s activities. I began the day with the intention of reorganizing my art supplies and ended up reorganizing my entire artwork corner. It felt good, cleansing, like a sort of preparation for a new journey. I guess this reminded me of what might be considered rites of passage, or moments of enlightenment.

Tonight, I was going to talk about tourists and their sometimes-annoying driving tendencies, but I do not feel like commenting on others’ behaviors. They are taking the time to stop, breathe in, enjoy the moment, look around and really see what is there. Perhaps we should thank those of us who choose to be tourists for a day or a week or a month instead of getting impatient with them. After all, they bring business to our local merchants and Inn Keepers. They also come to appreciate the scenery we so often take for granted.

Many years ago, in my twenties, I stayed at a friend’s country house for two weeks, several miles outside of Montreal. I needed some time and he had allowed me to visit and even bring my two cats. He had to be in Montreal for work for several days, so I stayed there alone, out in farm country, surrounded by endless miles of fields, cows, ravens and horizon. At night, all one could see outside was the faint line between land and sky, the lights in the kitchen of the only neighbor, the stars and the moon. On my first night alone there, I sat by the large front windows to read with my cats and the neighbor’s dog who liked to visit and had become a reassuring presence. I absentmindedly looked up from my book and through the window right in front of me to glance at the moon. I returned my attention to the book, but immediately looked up again.

The moon was full. Through the thin screen in the window, four beams of light appeared to emerge from it, forming a cross. I was mesmerized, but did not understand why. I had been raised an atheist and had never truly asked myself what I believed, yet in that moment I felt the magnitude of all that had come to pass in history and all that we had created, and I felt certain there had to be at least some force, beyond and far more intricate than our bare two hands, behind it all. I stared at the moon for so long that I actually watched the horizon move away from it. It was perhaps the only true moment of pure meditation I have ever attained. It changed me. I prayed. Prayer just came to me.

Such moments are rare, but always reach deep inside as though they had the ability to unlock some hidden memory. Yes. This is exactly how it felt. It felt as though I had suddenly remembered who and what I am, where and what I come from and how so very much intertwined with the Universe every individual existence actually is. Such moments are rare, we would probably take them for granted and not even notice them otherwise, but they do come around again, when we are ready and when, like tourists, we forget our daily routine long enough to notice.

Years later, as tourists in Scotland, Roderick and I walked in the forest near his ancestors’ castle, in Blair Atholl, Pertshire. The Scottish forest is massively populated by Beech. Their silver bark and stature are quite impressive. We walked peacefully on the path and came to a point where we stopped to take in the surrounding beauty. I was irresistibly drawn by something, but did not know what it was. I also felt like I was in familiar territory or like I remembered something. Roderick sat by a beech with his back against it and began to meditate. A larger beech caught my attention and I stood with my back against it. The energy was gentle, but distinctly penetrating.

We stayed quite a while, until it was time to return to the Inn. The moment I stepped away from my beech I was overcome by the sort of heart wrenching pain and sadness children experience when forcibly separated from a parent. I shook and cried uncontrollably and was left with the mental image of an elderly patriarch with the most benevolent eyes and smile I had ever seen. It felt like I had finally returned home or had a glimpse of a world and people I had left behind centuries ago. This is the only way I can describe this experience.

It stays with me to this day. My connection with this tree, and others since, is ever present, as subtle and deep as the invisible lifeline between siblings. Though I cannot explain how this is possible, I have found that I can sense the presence of beech long before I see them. Over time, I also discovered that many of the places I had been drawn to in nature are distinctly beech habitat. I remember as a child, the irresistible need to feel the “skin” and connect with the trees as we walked down the path where my father used to take use on picnics. I remember carefully avoiding causing injury to the roots as I walked and internally thanking each tree for steadying me down a slope. When I returned to this place, years later, I was at once shocked and not surprised to find my silver friends stand there, hundreds of them. Of course.

These experiences are not uncommon; what is uncommon is how we so often store them in the backs of our minds as though they belonged to an unreal world that does not fit in our modern times or daily business. We believe this part of our life experience is not socially acceptable. Yet how can something that so deeply touches the soul not be part of the whole person?

Slainte!