WhoKnows

I feel like a spoiled child when I am denied access. I want to kick and scream until I’m sent to my bedroom without any tv or supper. I scream, “I Don’t Care. It’s Not Fair!” I’ve got conflicted emotions while I’m holding my selfish ground (Think Icona Pop, ‘I Love It’). When the child in me quiets down I can be rational. I can better see my place in the grand scheme of things when temper has cooled. I might still complain about the many gatekeepers at work to keep order in society.

I’m in the process of deciding where I would like to live out the latter third of my life. I’ve figured that the future location must provide comfort, access, and aesthetics. My partner and I have discussed the subtle elements of those three requirements. The place where we live has to have warmth and surroundings that make us feel safe. We want to feel as though we can go to other places quickly and have our needs met without long waits.

I have temporarily relocated to come to the aid of family. My first consideration was finding a place to stay. My second; to get myself a library card. For me, books are a source of comfort and libraries are a hub for enquiring minds. In grade three I was intimidated by Mrs.Powers, the Teacher Librarian at my school. It didn’t help that I committed a crime that year. I lost a book that I borrowed from one of her shelves.

Reading about Benedictine monks reminded me how far some people will go to simplify their lives. I was curious to find out why someone would choose the cloistered life. I look around today (2026 Monk Walk made news). Looking back I saw people hurrying about with cell phones clutched to their ears. We don’t want to appear left out of the loop, but the loop keeps getting bigger and bigger. This creates enormous pressure to sustain this connective momentum.

I’m challenged by this word right now. I’m looking for anchors as I am being swept into the whirlpool of opinion regarding the ‘new normal’. My previous definitions are lacking the clarity they once had for me. I feel like my brain might be labelled Abby Normal as interpreted by Igor in the film Young Frankenstein. Or maybe my situation calls for a visit to a Monty Python clinic. Seriously though.

I was doing some trimming of my trees during a fine spring day. I was proud of the way they had grown since my arrival at this place I called home. Only one of the three trees in my front yard had been planted with my own hands. The Manitoba Maple stands on the east side of the property. It has to be constantly watched or it will get out of hand. It’s an aggressive species. It continues to send out shoots regardless of the number of times I cut it back.

Sometimes the big picture is just too overwhelming. I suspect that is why we derive such pleasure from the miniature. I remember my father reading bedtime stories to my sister and me from a series of books by Mary Norton. Moviegoers have recently been treated to this author’s imaginative spin on the world through films about The Borrowers. What got me hooked by the narrative back then was the idea that there could be something smaller than I.

What one considers a crisis is subjective. I write this knowing that the troubles in my life can’t be ranked on the scale of dilemmas others in the world have now, or will experience. For example, on tonight’s news, I watched horrified as hundreds gathered at the Kandahar airstrip clambering onto the fuselage of a taxiing aircraft. That was a scene of crisis on an unforgiving and unforgivable scale. One could say that our thoughts on crises are all relative. Yet that is so dismissive.

William Shakespeare is my favourite writer dude. I love getting immersed in his plays. It’s difficult at first as you must fall into step with the cadence of his poetry. After a film or a live performance of his work, I feel as though I could, with a bit of encouragement, speak as the great Bard doth speak. This past summer I had the pleasant experience of attending one of Shakespeare’s plays, Richard Ill, within the recreated Globe Theatre on the South Bank of London, England.

I have a panic room in my head and it works the opposite of a safe haven. I’ve never seen a film style panic room; where actors portraying people victimized by home invaders find sanctuary. My mental panic room is a space in my mind. Its imaginary architecture must have doors and windows to let fresh thoughts in. I’m only there, waiting in a corner, because I have been stifled by repeating thoughts that whirl me into a panic response.