My dog sees the world much clearer than I do. Apparently dogs cannot see colours, but take in the visual world in shades of grey only. The fact that there are an infinite number of shades of grey means that Jasper's perceptions of reality are probably not too far removed from the true pictures being transmitted. He likely sees a bright red as a bright grey, while a very light yellow colour probably is just a tad removed from whitish grey.
The canine world has never observed colour, so they can't miss what they've never had. When Jasper looks at a rainbow all he sees are semicircular shades of grey that supposedly lead to a pot of grey coins. I doubt he even cares about the rainbow or its mystical bounty and I bet he can never quite understand his master's fascination with those things. I learned in elementary school that a rainbow also holds the secret of the colours of the spectrum. I have never forgotten that ROY G BIV lives inside every rainbow no matter where in the world it may be - Red Orange Yellow Green Blue Indigo Violet. They are beautiful.
Colour is everywhere. It has come to symbolize moods (red = anger), gender (pink = female), the environment (green = eco-friendly), and the rainbow itself is the symbol of the gay and lesbian movement. I know these colours are out there. I sense them. I'm just not sure that I completely comprehend and appreciate them. You see, I've always known that I have a tendency to see everything in only two colours, either black or white. As a result, I often see only only two solutions to a problem, two outcomes to a situation, two courses of action from which to choose, you are either someone I like or you are not, you are a good person or you're not, you are a team player or you're not.
I'm not certain why I'm like this. Perhaps it is a means to simplify a complicated world. This is not necessarily a positive thing. I tend to limit my options too quickly, I see people as being one way or another and don't allow for the prospect of change in those I have preordained.
I actually started this story thinking about how numbers are the essence of black & white thinking. A number is a finite thing, it is quantifiable and unquestionable in its value. It is what it is. Despite this, numbers always seem to come with a secondary meaning attached. This meaning is what colours the numbers and makes them so confusing. The confusion only grows when numbers are manipulated. Let me show you an example: In 1989 I was 185 pounds. Today I am 235 pounds. (I'm not fat, I'm just short for my weight.) I have gained 50 pounds. That sounds brutal and it is, but let's look at it another way. In 22 years I have gained an average of 2 1/4 pounds a year. Now that doesn't sound too bad. Put another way, I've put on 3 ounces a month. That's represented by a couple of Timbits. Losing weight is going to be easy when I frame it using those numbers. If I cut back on those Timbits and throw in a bag of chips or two, then the weight will just fall off of me. If I lose just 10 pounds a year, when I'm 66 I'll be 35 pounds. If I'm going to be that thin, then I'd better play it safe and not cut back on the chips.
I'll continue to work at being more open minded and to appreciate the abundance of colourful people that make up our world. I'll also continue to observe Jasper and try to learn a little more about how our non-judgemental canine friends have flourished despite being colour blind. Forgive me if I happen to invade your personal space in the coming days and weeks. Getting a good sniff seems to help dogs to form an accurate opinion of people. I'll try to avoid getting too close to your crotch, but I make no promises. So please follow the advice of your mothers and always wear clean underwear. The colour of them doesn't matter.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Friday, September 23, 2011
Do You Know Moammar Nixon?
These past few months have seen the dramatic rise of democratic forces in several Middle Eastern countries. The citizens of Libya, Egypt and Syria have challenged the dictatorships that have ruled the political and social landscapes of these countries for decades. Freedom of choice and the rights of the individual have proven to be more powerful than the weapons of the loyalist armies and more fluid than the oil that flows so freely from the sands of these lands. No societal model is perfect, but one that discounts or marginalizes the populous is eventually doomed to failure. Tyrants can no longer count on citizens being ignorant and uneducated about the goings on of the world at large. Once a taste of freedom is savoured or even thought to be possible, people will choose the hard road every time in order to be able to sit at the table of democracy.
This serious, in tone, geopolitical preamble was necessary in order to bring me to the point of today's writing story. I'm usually not so cryptic. I think my 9 year old daughter may be an offspring of Moammar Khadafi, Hosni Muberek or Bashar al-Assad. It's not that she has any of their physical features - thank god for that - nor does she resort to torture in order to get her way. Well, not torture in the traditional sense. Avery is able to push my buttons with merely a look. As I peer into those wide, watery eyes, see the quivering lower lip and those way too adorable freckles, I'm left feeling like I deserve to spend the rest of my life getting stretched on the rack. Surely, for this child to feel such woe, then I must have done something unthinkable. The punishment must fit the crime. Khadafi and company failed to understand this fundamental principle and their empires crumbled because of it.
Before I banished myself to the dungeon or to remedial classes for dissident dads, then I had to find out what wrong I had perpetrated on my youngest offspring. If we do not take the time to understand the mistakes of our past, then we are bound to repeat them. There will come a time when the shoe will be on the other foot and I'll need someone to change my diaper and to comfort me at night with a story. I have but two children, so better not to alienate one of them so early in life, thereby greatly reducing my options for ageing gracefully and avoiding the old age home until I'm ready to go there. I doubt that Khadafi had such foresight or perhaps with tyranny comes the illusion of divinity. I am neither a tyrant nor divine, so keeping in the good books of my kids is my plan for ensuring bliss in my later years.
Avery told me that her angst was due to the fact that she does not like family meetings. OMG, she really does have a predisposition towards tyranny! A few months ago, I began to hold family meetings as I believed they were a great way for the kids to be included in the decision making process, for them to learn that their opinions matters and that it is important for them to speak their minds. Was Avery against the idea of having a say in her future? I was perplexed. It turns out I didn't have to wait long to find out. Yesterday, while Avery and I were struggling through grade 4 math homework (ok, I was the only one struggling), she blurted out that she no longer wanted to be involved in swim club and that she wanted to return to dance lessons. This was all a surprise to me. In fact, during one of our recent family meetings, the fall activity schedule was discussed at length with the kids and the decision was made to take a break from dance this year after seven years of ballet, tap and jazz. I suggested to Avery that we wait for mom to get home and we could then have a family meeting to discuss this. Immediately, the eyes watered, the lip quivered and the freckles freckled. A soft, broken, little girl voice declared "I don't like family meetings, they make me upset." I was back on the proverbial rack. What have I done to my sweet child to make something that was meant to be so good, come across as so bad? Time to re-evaluate.
I think I know what happened. Sure, the intent of our family meetings is to let the kids have a say, but in reality, Lynda and I had already decided what activities the kids would be joining this fall. As an example, we didn't want the kids to partake in dance any longer, so we weren't truly committed to listening to their suggestions. We took them down a road that they didn't want to travel. We muffled dissenting opinions. We ended our family meeting thinking that we had a consensus, but in reality, it was a consensus obtained fraudulently. We didn't mean for it to be that way and it is only as I write this that I see and understand what may have happened. It took a little while, but Avery figured it out. She figured it out before I did and opened my eyes. Even a nine year old knows when her freedom of expression has been suppressed. I'm proud of her for standing up for herself and articulating what she wants for her life. I said earlier that she may have some of the traits of a Middle Eastern dictator. If she has any, then I know where she gets them. Sometimes, her mother can be a real tyrant. Just kidding Honey.... really.... Ok, I know the routine...I'll strap myself myself to the rack when I get home.
This serious, in tone, geopolitical preamble was necessary in order to bring me to the point of today's writing story. I'm usually not so cryptic. I think my 9 year old daughter may be an offspring of Moammar Khadafi, Hosni Muberek or Bashar al-Assad. It's not that she has any of their physical features - thank god for that - nor does she resort to torture in order to get her way. Well, not torture in the traditional sense. Avery is able to push my buttons with merely a look. As I peer into those wide, watery eyes, see the quivering lower lip and those way too adorable freckles, I'm left feeling like I deserve to spend the rest of my life getting stretched on the rack. Surely, for this child to feel such woe, then I must have done something unthinkable. The punishment must fit the crime. Khadafi and company failed to understand this fundamental principle and their empires crumbled because of it.
Before I banished myself to the dungeon or to remedial classes for dissident dads, then I had to find out what wrong I had perpetrated on my youngest offspring. If we do not take the time to understand the mistakes of our past, then we are bound to repeat them. There will come a time when the shoe will be on the other foot and I'll need someone to change my diaper and to comfort me at night with a story. I have but two children, so better not to alienate one of them so early in life, thereby greatly reducing my options for ageing gracefully and avoiding the old age home until I'm ready to go there. I doubt that Khadafi had such foresight or perhaps with tyranny comes the illusion of divinity. I am neither a tyrant nor divine, so keeping in the good books of my kids is my plan for ensuring bliss in my later years.
Avery told me that her angst was due to the fact that she does not like family meetings. OMG, she really does have a predisposition towards tyranny! A few months ago, I began to hold family meetings as I believed they were a great way for the kids to be included in the decision making process, for them to learn that their opinions matters and that it is important for them to speak their minds. Was Avery against the idea of having a say in her future? I was perplexed. It turns out I didn't have to wait long to find out. Yesterday, while Avery and I were struggling through grade 4 math homework (ok, I was the only one struggling), she blurted out that she no longer wanted to be involved in swim club and that she wanted to return to dance lessons. This was all a surprise to me. In fact, during one of our recent family meetings, the fall activity schedule was discussed at length with the kids and the decision was made to take a break from dance this year after seven years of ballet, tap and jazz. I suggested to Avery that we wait for mom to get home and we could then have a family meeting to discuss this. Immediately, the eyes watered, the lip quivered and the freckles freckled. A soft, broken, little girl voice declared "I don't like family meetings, they make me upset." I was back on the proverbial rack. What have I done to my sweet child to make something that was meant to be so good, come across as so bad? Time to re-evaluate.
I think I know what happened. Sure, the intent of our family meetings is to let the kids have a say, but in reality, Lynda and I had already decided what activities the kids would be joining this fall. As an example, we didn't want the kids to partake in dance any longer, so we weren't truly committed to listening to their suggestions. We took them down a road that they didn't want to travel. We muffled dissenting opinions. We ended our family meeting thinking that we had a consensus, but in reality, it was a consensus obtained fraudulently. We didn't mean for it to be that way and it is only as I write this that I see and understand what may have happened. It took a little while, but Avery figured it out. She figured it out before I did and opened my eyes. Even a nine year old knows when her freedom of expression has been suppressed. I'm proud of her for standing up for herself and articulating what she wants for her life. I said earlier that she may have some of the traits of a Middle Eastern dictator. If she has any, then I know where she gets them. Sometimes, her mother can be a real tyrant. Just kidding Honey.... really.... Ok, I know the routine...I'll strap myself myself to the rack when I get home.
Friday, September 16, 2011
For Sale - One Worn Out Corpse
I'm afraid their may be something wrong with me and I'm really worried. I think I may be a hypochondriac.
In all seriousness, I've seen more than my share of doctors in the last four or five years. There's nothing majorly wrong with me, physically that is. It just seems that one after another, and sometimes all together, parts of this middle-aged body have gone a little haywire. I never considered myself an "um me" (as in "uuu me knee" or "uuu me head"), but maybe I need to re-evaluate that assertion. Perhaps I'm getting soft or perhaps these ailments are a natural function of the life I have led.
I'm reminded of the question regarding the best way to leave this world. The debate is whether it is better to die occupying a body that is in great shape because that person lived cautiously and safely or, when exhaling for the last time, should a person's body look more like mom's old Mazda Protege, with it's dents, cracks, and rusted out floor? In answering this question, we all respond the same way. We know that our bodies are no different than our houses, investments and the cash in our piggy banks. It doesn't matter whether we believe we will be spending eternity among the clouds, sweating it out in Hades, or in the arms of a hundred virgins. We can no more take our corpses with us to our final end than we can take our worldly treasures. If we get to "old age", whatever that is, given that 80 is the new 50, then our soulless bodies are of little use to anyone. A well preserved 100 year old body does not suddenly become valuable. It is not an antique to be collected, polished and put on display, but rather one to be pitied for the life that was not lived to the fullest.
If any of you think that you have lived a rather sheltered existence up to now, it is not too late. The best times of your life lay ahead of you. This is not a recommendation to suddenly go off the deep end and to do something rash, like quit your job. Very few of us need to do anything radical to start down the path towards a better life. Every journey begins with one small step. Having balance in life is the key component. A close friend of mine once put life in its true perspective and I have shared his words many times over the years. He said "Jimmy, enjoy life because you are dead for a long time."
I'm doing the best to heed my own advice. I'm 46 years old, so that's probably the new 25. If I'm really only 25, then I should probably get a nipple ring and a face tattoo. If I don't make it to old age, then I'm going to make damn sure that no one will want any part of my body. I may need it when I meet those 100 virgins.
In all seriousness, I've seen more than my share of doctors in the last four or five years. There's nothing majorly wrong with me, physically that is. It just seems that one after another, and sometimes all together, parts of this middle-aged body have gone a little haywire. I never considered myself an "um me" (as in "uuu me knee" or "uuu me head"), but maybe I need to re-evaluate that assertion. Perhaps I'm getting soft or perhaps these ailments are a natural function of the life I have led.
I'm reminded of the question regarding the best way to leave this world. The debate is whether it is better to die occupying a body that is in great shape because that person lived cautiously and safely or, when exhaling for the last time, should a person's body look more like mom's old Mazda Protege, with it's dents, cracks, and rusted out floor? In answering this question, we all respond the same way. We know that our bodies are no different than our houses, investments and the cash in our piggy banks. It doesn't matter whether we believe we will be spending eternity among the clouds, sweating it out in Hades, or in the arms of a hundred virgins. We can no more take our corpses with us to our final end than we can take our worldly treasures. If we get to "old age", whatever that is, given that 80 is the new 50, then our soulless bodies are of little use to anyone. A well preserved 100 year old body does not suddenly become valuable. It is not an antique to be collected, polished and put on display, but rather one to be pitied for the life that was not lived to the fullest.
If any of you think that you have lived a rather sheltered existence up to now, it is not too late. The best times of your life lay ahead of you. This is not a recommendation to suddenly go off the deep end and to do something rash, like quit your job. Very few of us need to do anything radical to start down the path towards a better life. Every journey begins with one small step. Having balance in life is the key component. A close friend of mine once put life in its true perspective and I have shared his words many times over the years. He said "Jimmy, enjoy life because you are dead for a long time."
I'm doing the best to heed my own advice. I'm 46 years old, so that's probably the new 25. If I'm really only 25, then I should probably get a nipple ring and a face tattoo. If I don't make it to old age, then I'm going to make damn sure that no one will want any part of my body. I may need it when I meet those 100 virgins.
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