As you may have guessed by now, my goal in writing these newsletters is to help you go to bed smarter than when you woke up by altering facts of what other people have already figured out.

In other words, all my knowledge and wisdom; a borderless nation state.

And one of these is The IKEA Effect. 

You know. IKEA. The Swedish company that sells pieces of cheaply constructed furniture components, along with wordless cartoon instructions, packaged with a bag of hardware including several wrong pieces, and almost always missing one critical component.

The IKEA Effect was identified and named in a 2011 paper in the Journal of Consumer Psychology by Michael Norton, Daniel Mochon and Dan Ariely. They described the IKEA Effect as a psychological phenomenon that explains how we come to love and value the things we put in effort into.

Thus the more effort we put into it, the more we are invested in it, the more we value it. It’s a feeling that what we have made is a hundred times better than any professional could have done. In fact, it’s the best made piece in the history of the world. 

But what is more interesting, is that we think others should value it as much as we do, often widely out of proportion to their logical value. Take selling a home. I see this all the time. Someone who has worked on their home or home projects are often inclined to feel that the house is worth more than market value because of their labors of love. Because really, how can anyone not credit the time and effort it took to painstaking glue the crumbling ’70‘s wallpaper in the bathroom, to embroider daisies on the pink ruffled kitchen curtains, to build a coffee table out of recycled beer bottles, to needlepoint Canada geese flying east on the toss cushions, and to scrounge wood for scaffolding in order to hang the 6 foot macramé wall hanging? Like Chihuahuas and hot curries, this emotion often provokes extreme reactions. So the moment people are involved with their built environment, they have a totally different relationship to it. The equation: the higher the contribution, the higher the value. Interior designers know this feeling. And most of us also have a really great hair. By the way, is it possible to ever get attached to a BILLY bookcase?

IKEA also discovered a long time ago, 1943 to be exact, that people are sometimes willing to pay more for things they are involved in building, hence the 957 million customer visits yearly to IKEA stores.   

Interestingly enough, it actually is more about the completion of the task, as the effect completely disappears when the task is not completed well or not completed at all.

Who of us does not have, somewhere in our home, a table, dresser or bookcase far past its expiration date – wobbly, chipped paint, missing a handle, but we just can’t quite bring ourself to throw it away.

Why?

We BUILT the thing. Maybe it was 27 years ago, but darnit, it’s our baby.

All of us feel successful, and maybe even faintly triumphant, by turning a pile of wood with pre-drilled holes into a desk. The secret that IKEA hit on 77 years ago, is to find the sweet spot; where we can enjoy “building” a desk, get a bit frustrated, but still feel in control and use at the end. It’s always a cause for celebration, even if there is a couple of screws left over or a leg on backwards.

“So what?”, we say. We silently curse the IKEA Gods and go find some duct tape. 

This year and once again, allow me to wax rhapsodic as I present my annual attempt at trying to help you through the minefield of a holiday we lovingly refer to as Valentine’s Day. A day we show love and appreciation for the special one in our life by saying – “Happy, what? Oh crap. I’ll be right back.”

That’s not to say that the only ones that forget Valentine’s Day are necessarily philanderers. Some of us are only thinking about cheating. Paradoxically, and with a straight face. February is pegged as the month of romance…idling over a candlelight dinner, proffering an envelop with a $10 Starbucks gift card, and reading sonnets.  So why is Valentine’s Day in February? Why this month? Maybe because it is usually very cold and low football season.

According to my exhaustive research, there is a particular formula to follow when ascertaining the amount one should spend on that special someone’s Valentine’s Day present. 

Simply take their monthly salary, subtract the cost of yearly medical expenses, divide this by the weekly food bill, and multiply the remainder by the number of days left until Valentine’s Day. Then throw that number out and go down to the nearest gas station to find out what they’re charging for a small bag of red licorice. This is what you have to work with.  

And the world is divided between those who pursue breakfast and those who don’t. 

Current relationship status. Made dinner for two. Ate both. I. Holiday factoid: According to legend, it was common to sign Valentine cards with the salutation, “From your Valentine“, an expression that is still used today, but not in prison.    II. Holiday factoid:  According to the 1978 Canadian census, 91% of Valentines cards (priced at colorful prices known as “insane”), many with Cupid floating around in fresh diapers with loaded arrows, are sold out 2 days before Valentine’s Day. This is probably part of an evil, coordinated plot hatched by the (NGB), notorious guilt bombers, whose evil plans is to empty the shelves just to spite last minute losers. Cause why accomplish things early when you can do them late? another startlingly statistic: For every 100 single women in their 30’s, there are 59 single guys, many of them without a criminal record. For every 100 single women in their 60’s, there are only 33 single men. But thankfully, the curve begins to flatten, because for every 100 single women over the age of 100, 100% of single guys are dead.

Here’s another startlingly statistic: For every 100 single women in their 30’s, there are 59 single guys, many of them without a criminal record. For every 100 single women in their 60’s, there are only 33 single men. But thankfully, the curve begins to flatten, because for every 100 single women over the age of 100, 100% of single guys are dead.  III. Holiday factoid: Most homes have an average of 19.3 boxes of half eaten boxes of cherry covered chocolates, some dating back to their early ‘20s.    I know, I look in their closets. Not even remotely compelling.

IV. Holiday factoid:

The average Canadian consumes 88.18 pounds of saccharine trappings every year. Which means that if St. Valentine were to get dipped in dark organic chocolate, 7 random Canadians would actually have eaten his weight inadvertently.

Not that this is information you actually need. 

V. Holiday factoid:

A red stapler is not a “heartsy” Valentines gift, a decision referred to by many geologists, as “rock stupid.” It is advised to “Put your heart into it.”, as opposed to other organs in the body. 

This also goes for those cliche chocolate-covered strawberries dressed in tuxedos. It’s February, people. Strawberries are not in season, and THEY DO NOT WEAR CLOTHES.

VI. Holiday factoid: 

Subtle hints and reminders are most effective when your partner actually pays attention to what you’re saying.

VII. Holiday factoid: I didn’t have to make up anything in the previous VI paragraphs.  And we wonder why no one claims the making of crop circles.  Lady-In-Read

Signed. Sealed. Delivered. I’m yours.

This January was the longest year I can remember. But fortunately for me, I eliminated some of the travail, by basking in milquetoast Oregon weather all last week.

Why?

Because I’ve been demoted to looking after three dogs instead of my usual gig of babysitting a cat in Honolulu. 

Well…there used to be two cats, but one jumped off the 11th floor balcony. 

Hmmm, you say, maybe that’s why you lost your gig.  

Noooo…he jumped of its own accord. It had nothing to do with me. Just ask the doorman who found him in the bushes. I was in a taxi by that time. 

The minute I arrived in Oregon, I turned technology off.

The reason.

To experience JOMO – The Joy of Missing Out

It was euphoric.

I watched snow drops drift down, sun shadows move, and clouds change. I made a imaginary quilt, listened to birds singing at the feeder outside my window, watched a cactus grow, and never once wondered about Facebook and Instagram posts. 

Emphatic, unhurried. Laudable. Uncharacteristically laconic. Slowly dismantling my obsession with productivity.

And all in comfortable pants.

There were no pings. No binge watching Season 6 Grace and Frankie. No copper mining. And no phone calls.

Not that there were any. I checked.

Yup, I was just a low maintenance introvert one long beard away from being a complete hermit. A party of one.

I am now at the age of knowing that “No One Really Cares What You Had for Dinner”. Essentially being ignored and unnoticed.

Also called being over 50. 

Although it might have been helpful if I hadn’t followed the skin care rules of the ‘60’s – baby oil and tinfoil, and eaten less Cheez Whiz on white bread. I also would have liked to have learned how to keep chairs from wobbling a little earlier on in life.

Although I’m gratefully on the other side of 50, I actually feel 37. It’s the age I identify with, feeling like a young woman with something really wrong with me. But that’s another story.

But I do have to tell you that one of the greatest things I learned over the week, was the flattering illusion that I am really quite an easy person to live with. You can ask anyone here. 

Yea, we live in a time where our dearest, maybe our only, constant companion, is our cell phone. We have it while eating, with friends, exercising in the gym, dog walking, at a concert, breastfeeding, during sex, cleaning toilets…the list goes on. Although the dark truth is, it has become very hard to find anyone (and certainly anything), more interesting than one’s own smartphone.

I mean, it’s not a sign of a problem when the first thing we look at in the morning and the last thing we touch at night is our phone.

Yup, just piling my help and goodness all over everybody. That’s just the kind of person I am.

Maybe cell phones should come with a label from the Surgeon General. Warning: Extensive cellular use causes addiction, mass extinction of species, community breakdown, relationship problems, and extensive Amazon deliveries.

Houston, we have a problem.

t’s such a romantic idea, this solitude thing. Sans technology. Silence.

But yet every day we do all sorts of things to escape this ubiquitous dragon, this ultimate vulnerability, this potentially penetrating hum and bodily ache of being alone.

We become workaholics, consumerholics, religioholics, technoholics, volunteerholics, excerciseholics, chocoholics, kaleoholics – anything to mask the lonely desperation.

We humans have this need for deep connection, even if it’s only with our frozen dinner package, teary-eyed and whispering “Thank you, friend.” after reading the “Enjoy!” note at the end of the cooking instructions. 

Loneliness can scramble our thinking and make us afraid to reach out because who of us wants more rejection when we already have as much heartache as we can manage.
 

But being alone makes us develop our own point of view, giving us time for clear, critical thinking. Time to reflect and ponder, to sense and notice, of being on the cusp of something when we almost know what we feel. It’s unruly, but enduring.

Spending quality time with ourselves also allows us to curtail our gullibility – and not necessarily believe everything I write.

We need to learn to be comfortable being alone without disassociating ourselves from the world, making us more capable of intimacy when we get the opportunity.   When we are not lonely when alone, we have achieved the ultimate -– comfort and ease in solitude.  Yes, Cinderella, you can do it.

As for me, and if nothing else, I’m counting on this solitude thing to make me unaccountably alluring and elegant.

I’m Not Ready to Scrape Ice    Last week. True north strong and freezing. Cold enough to glue eyelids shut. Cold enough to freeze wood frogs solid. Cold enough to freeze tongues to flagpoles. Cold enough that icicles are inside the house. The benchmark lowered considerably for what was enjoyable and what was not. Lordy.  You know it’s bad when even the Gentoo penguins at the Calgary Zoo weren’t allowed to play outside.

Yup, it was approximately the same temperature as it would be if you’d been sitting on top of Mount Everest. Except it was colder. And the snow! All that shoveling. You wonder what you’ve done in your life to live somewhere where there’s an actual threat of losing your fingers while shoveling two feet of snow off the sidewalk – along with having to miss your favorite TV show.  Any of you who lived through a week like last week will now be able to tell your grandchildren of the good old days of 2020.

There are 37.59 million Canadians. These are their problems.   Maybe we should keep this weather seasonal myopia to ourselves. Is this how we want the world to see and remember us? Fur wrapped and huddled around a Primus stove drying out our toques, bemoaning the cancelled bacon cook off? I mean, who needs white sand beaches, sun and suntan oil, when you can be puffed up in four layers of down, long johns and two pairs of wool mitts with matching earmuffs. Surfing the waves? Ha! That’s for sissies.   Now let’s talk about our collective winter creativity? I mean, seriously? Once we had nine professional football teams and two of them had the same name.    Dance Like Snow-One’s Watching  There are still some of us that can be totally fearless during a cold spell, mainly because we hate being confined, especially if it’s for our own good.  Some of us go out and throw boiling water in the air to make mist arcs, use lawn chairs to clear sidewalks, make spaghetti sculptures, play Frisbee with frozen clothes, have frozen hair contests, and dance the bhangra in the snow. For 45 seconds.

All this just makes us just a little bit more Canadian. Just like participating in the Polar Bear Swim or voluntarily spend the night sleeping on a slab of ice.   Yes, we Canadians have a capacity for accepting unconventional things on the intake. Say “Cheese curds on top of fries and gravy.” By the way, there’s an “alleged” cool front coming in again on Wednesday, and if it happens, you may never hear from me again. Plus my leg hurts. It’s been great knowing you all and thank you for reading.  After all, the secret of happiness lies in focusing less on what we don’t have – heat, and more on what we do have  – snow. P.S. But for the record, I’ll continue to skip the double-double. In minus Celsius.

Yes, it’s officially a new decade. So far I have spent it like I spent the end of the last decade – in my pyjamas eating macadamia nuts and bingeing on Netflix. I figure it’s better to start small and work up to bigger things.I’m not generally one for New Year’s Resolutions – better known as casual promises that you are under no legal obligation to keep.Statistics show that 92% drop their New Year’s Resolution in about 7 minutes flat. If you are very, very quiet, you can hear them breaking all over the world.So rather than setting myself up to fail, I prefer to cut out the middleman and jump straight to not doing things.But two years ago, I came up with a resolution I could actually keep. It had everything an achievable goal should have. It was specific ― not vague or lofty, like wearing breathable fleece or reading all seven parts of Proust’s Remembrance of Things Past.   Itwas a small, daily task with measurable results. It was intrinsically motivated — I was doing this for me and me alone.   My resolution: eat more chocolate. And I did it. I’m still doing it today. Matter of fact, I’m doing it right now.

I am fairly certain that given a cape and a nice tiara, I could save the world.

Some resolutions are easily enough achieved, like cutting down on extramarital affairs, but some are like hammering the ‘CLOSE DOOR’ button in an elevator when you see your archenemy approaching.  There just is no point. It won’t close any faster by continually punching it. It only gives you the illusion of control and stops you from remembering that you’re in a metal box dangling from a wire sixty feet in the air.

Developing a good habit or breaking a bad one isn’t easy, as anyone who has endeavoured to make a New Year’s resolution can attest. It is now well known that there is no magic time interval to make a habit. Not 21 days, not 30 days for majestic abs, not 66 days to stop late night snacking.  I found that the best way to begin a new habit is to set the bar incredibly low. You pick something so small, it’s easy to do. For instance, you want a tidy house, then start with tidying up your bathroom. Every Day. That’s it. Little motivation is required and you never raise the minimum. The goal remains to only tidying up your bathroom – everyday. Anything more is a bonus. If you want to maintain the habit, and hopefully one day exceed it, you need to be okay with just doing the original version of it.In other words, if you get immediate rewards from your new habits, you will be more likely to stick to them.Like – this past year I went to the gym eight times. This New Year’s resolution is to cut that number in half. It’s something like the age old age battle of doing what you want to do, and not what you should do – like not returning your grocery cart and wearing questionable fashion statements.

“Should-ing” on yourself is never a good idea. It only leads to guilt, shame, remorse, and probably more drinking.

Take that one word, “should” out of your vocabulary, and you may stand a fighting chance of scaling the heights of sorting through those closets, tackling the basement, or thinning out the filing cabinets. 

“Should” implies that whatever you are planning is only a possibility, not a reality. In other words, you’re giving yourself an excuse simply by saying you “should” do something, rather than you “will” do something.  As Nike says, Just Do It, and pretty soon and before you know it, you may find yourself deep in recycling bags. That is, after you take that 30 minute walk that you vowed to do everyday since 1804. I know, I’m being surprisingly unhelpful.  So, as someone dragging a trail of abandoned yoga mats and water bottles, it’s nice to finally see the bottom of a promise fulfilled – another empty chocolate box. By the way, January 8 is National Ditch New Year’s Resolutions Day, or in the case of a small disinterested minority, the anniversary of Prime Minister Patrice Emery Lumumba’s Assassination.  Here’s to a powerful and cheerful new year.

Holiday Greetings!  It’s the Christmas Season and I know you are dying to know what exciting things I’ve been up to this year. Having turned down repeated requests for interviews from People magazine and the National Enquirer, I’ve decided to give you, my dear clients, an exclusive.   Since it is the holiday season, it seems fitting to mention that I haven’t been invited to a single Christmas party. I only mention this to make you feel guilty in case you had a Christmas party and failed to invite me, because I’ve been free every weekend in December and most weekends in November.  Although not generally known for my eagerness to go outside, this year I made a number of driving trips (there may have been a Hop on Hop off in there somewhere), and stayed in an inordinate number of places where there is a healthy fear of getting lice from the blankets. I ate breakfasts, lunches, afternoon snacks, dinners, and late night desserts coupled with a tipple of Sauvignon Blanc on most occasions. During those sojourns, I remember inadvertently sharing some of my deepest secrets to strangers, as well as having to fight off a cow. (By the way, NEVER look into a hotel’s lighted magnified bathroom mirror. It’s scary. Not even God wants to see us that close up.)  I have to admit that I chose this year of all years, to have a past-middle-life crisis. Apparently I have been buying clothing that is far too trendy, started leaf-pressing as a hobby, and have been seriously considering designing a line of swimwear for cats. This petit trauma led me to discover the joys of anti-anxiety medication. It is truly a match made in heaven and a relationship I plan on nurturing for the long haul.   As many of you know, I’m a great lover of artful tchotchkes, I mean, treasures. So during my travels, I was always on the lookout for any that could potentially unlock the mysteries of my ancestors and match the colour scheme of my living room.   Oh, and this year, I finally got those drapes I’ve been wanting.   I am, although, happy to announce that I still haven’t had my identity stolen. I did try to auction it off on ebay. A nice gentleman from Grenada contacted me and we have started up a correspondence. He promises to totally change my financial profile. In the meantime, I remain at the same address.   In closing, I want to offer you all a hearty thank you for your support and for cleaning my house (if applicable). You have been an important part of my year and you helped me realize that aside from that catastrophic loss and ensuing despondency, the encroaching arthritis in my left elbow, and possible onset of asthma from poplar pollen, this year may prove to be my best year yet.    Cheers,  Karyn

Well, it seems 8538 kms. in one month just wasn’t enough driving for me, so last weekend I jumped in my car to locate 1,900 square kms. of sand dunes – in Saskatchewan. Now I know that 99.999999% of you did not even know there were sand dunes in Saskatchewan. Yup.

On my interminable, meandering drive from Calgary, I made a point of stopping at every weathered grain elevator (4),

and take a collection of pictures that any archivist would envy, of sun-bleached buildings collapsing in on themselves, surrendered completely to time and gravity.

Keep reading folks, because it’s bound to get helpful.

Driving through the small towns and villages, I didn’t spot a single person, even though it was a Saturday.

I finally got to the village of Sceptre, home of 15 faded murals, and at the  “Closed for the Season” Great Sand Dunes Museum, there is a tiny piece of paper taped on the window with driving instructions. “Turn right at the wildlife viewing area sign onto the gravel road, follow the curve to the right, turn left at the white sign. The sand dunes are just past the cattle gate.” Easy.

There were intriguing turns. I didn’t know what I would find when, and if, I got there: maybe just a big sand pile in a scrubby bush clearing with a few rabbits hopping around. 

Following the meagre instructions, given I am someone with an instruction challenge disorder, I finally pull into the tiny parking lot, one that could accommodate maybe ten cars if everyone parked logically. 

As the clouds of dust settled, I look up and I stop breathing for a moment. It looked like the abandoned set of Lawrence of Arabia.
 

Off to my left, I spot something high on a hill. Curious, I make my way up the steep slope, the sand deep and silica soft, the kind you might feel between your toes at the most luxurious beaches. The hill I was now walking up, I would later read, is Boot Hill, named for the late John Both, a rancher who cared for the dunes for 57 years. At the top of the hill was a wooden arch with dozens of cowboy boots nailed on haphazardly. Both had initially nailed a pair of his old boots to it, inspiring dozens to follow sui

Looking south and east, there are dramatic waves of sand, and more gold rising in the distance, each dune standing at least 15 to 20 metres high. The area was so vast and empty, it was hard to determine the distance between each dune and even the crests within them.

And I was completely alone.

Not to be afraid when you are all alone is the only true way of being not afraid.                                                                                                                -Olga Jacoby

So here is the question.  How brave can we be in our aloneness without feeling unsafe, uncomfortable, or even afraid?

The freedom of traveling alone, eating alone, living alone, or walking alone, gives us the opportunity to pay a certain kind of attention – to really “look” at things fully.  For me, much of the visceral benefit and potential of listening, of watching, of doing, is not possible when shared.  Our culture stigmatizes aloneness. Being alone is a difficult discipline. It is seldom allowed, condoned, nor given safe practice. Anyone who chooses to be alone is often feigned as hollow as the hole in the centre of a doughnut, weird or just a plain loser.

I have often observed that as soon as I engage someone in conversation that is alone, they are quick to point out that they either have a partner lurking nearby, resting in their room, or recovering from a hangnail operation in the hospital – in other words, they aren’t alone. 
 

I like to think that they may be bordering on something close to envy when learning I am travelling alone, but usually they just find a reason to move to another table. This may tell more about me than it does of them.

Yea, the road to enlightenment is long and difficult. Don’t forget to bring snacks and magazines.
 

By the way, I found the tree that Constables Davis and Karen lurked behind trying to catch speeders on Corner Gas.

We often don’t take time to contemplate, to reflect on our experiences fully until we are alone. Many of us are not brave enough to delve to the depths of the wellspring to bring up forgotten gems, and scrape off the grit. As we grow and change, we may come to understand our experiences differently and do the hardest thing ever – forgive ourselves, leading us to our deepest bravery. To overcome loneliness, we first have to be aware we are lonely, then confront its lurking shadows. We cannot bypass it. The goal is to be comfortable being alone with ourselves without disassociating from the world.

Loneliness is a paper cup.

Nowadays, we can’t even be comfortably alone with a coffee without barricading ourselves behind a screen, barely lifting our heads. Or we grab a coffee To Go, not sitting to enjoy it in a proper mug, converse with someone, or daydream.

Loneliness can make us more capable of true intimacy – if we ever get the opportunity. 

By the way, the last time I was someone’s type, I was donating blood.
 

Loneliness makes us develop our own point of view, not repeating what we think everyone else thinks. Loneliness gives us character. And if all else is lost, I’m counting on it to make me unaccountably alluring and elegant.

The greatest dis-ease now facing humanity is a painful, throbbing loneliness and profound sense of disconnection – disconnection from their body, from others, and from the world. There is an undercurrent belief that everything should be pleasurable, mainly positive, and easy enough. This makes for a constant search for distractions, of busyness, short-circuiting learning and increasing emotional immaturity.  What separates the mature from the immature is, perhaps more than anything else, a content capacity for being on their own without distraction, to think about who they are and their experiences, allowing themselves to ‘feel’ their feelings, even when they may be difficult and hugely unwelcome. They don’t erect defences to hedge against loneliness by finding someone or something to prevent them from any risk of understanding their own mind.

As I walk back to the parking lot, I see the best thing ever.  A man and women were getting out of their car. Then out from the back tumbled 3 little preschoolers, sand pails and plastic shovels in hand.  No iPads. No iPhones. No beeping technology. They came to play on the sand dunes.

One can grow used to cosy mediocrity.

I’m back…from driving 8538 kilometres through 8 states in 30 days, and lying under bad botanical prints in teeming motel rooms. This, a peregrination I had planned and agreed to pay for.What counted, I thought, was staying power, and this I meant to have in spades.I also thought I needed to bring my level of tolerance up a notch – all the while contemplating the contents of hotel mini-bars, relishing a dry martini, and dreaming of first class accommodations.

For most of history people simply just viewed places and art, stayed awhile to experience and enjoy them, maybe contemplated alone or conversed with their travel mate, but with the rise of smart phones, people just take pictures. Tourists now spend their time poking a two-dimensional version on their touch screens, and in David’s case, mostly at his genitals.There is such a thing as going to a place and not actually being there.Our culture is obsessed with celebrity and panicked for instant approval, the counterfeit crowns that come in the form of reposts, retweets and likes. People takes pictures of anything they see without even seeing them.   In Yellowstone National Park, I watched as a twenty-something girl recorded Old Faithful faithfully erupt with a Go-Pro in her left hand while texting on her phone with her right hand, not once looking up. (You are probably wondering why I was watching the girl instead of watching Old Faithful erupt.) Because there are certain necessary tasks that coarsen the quality of my everyday life.  And the world starts to divide.

I watched as tourists jumped out of their vehicles and videoed the scene in front of them, pressed pause, and immediately turned their back to go  – where? – the next spot to record?  I watched as children used mobile screens in restaurants, streets and on beaches in lieu of conversation or interaction, not watching or listening to the pleasures around them, nor playing with sand buckets. This all made me feel spiritually itchy.But to be frank, I can be something of a whiner.  Before we think about travelling anywhere, even it is only to the nearest cantina, we need to question its usefulness if we do not know how to look or notice what we have already seen.  We need to think not only about where we go, but why and how.Because,” as Airbnb CEO, Brian Chesky, affirms: “travel has never really been about where you go. It’s about the person you’ve become when you return.”

When we travel, we are often prone to forget one crucial thing: that we have to take ourselves with us. That is, we won’t just be in Portland, the south of France, Fiji, or the Easter Islands – we’ll be there with ourselves, imprisoned in our own bodies and minds, most of us with the emotional quotient somewhere between a cactus and a wombat.

For example, a single sulk can destroy the beneficial effects of the experience of a National Park. Or ruin the entire week in Paris over an argument why one can’t visit four art galleries in one day. Or the frustration over who had forgotten the key in the room. For no matter how beautiful the hotel room and setting is, we might as well have stayed home and ranted.  How quickly the advantages of civilization are wiped out by a tantrum.

By the way, before you criticize someone, you should walk a mile in their shoes. That way, when you criticize them, you’re a mile away and you have their shoes.  We become present to ourselves in the absence of something we need. But at home, we may not actually be who we truly are. Travelling may soon reveal that we actually aren’t really as patient, tolerant or open-minded as we thought we were, and that we need certain accruements before we are comfortable or even happy.  Travelling can be a call to marry the outer journey with what we require for our inner journey.

Alice Walker says that sometimes you have to go to places that really scare you, to see clearer, to think about who you really are and what you really believe. For example, nature has the power in unobtrusive ways, to act as inspirations to certain virtues that need to be honed, virtues that benefit our souls. This kind of attention – with your hands, heart and feet might just be a thing worthy of your time. A desert to feel small and realize that the incidents of our lives are not terribly important in the big scheme of things.

(What this picture doesn’t show you is that it was approximately the same temperature as it would be if we’d been sitting on the sun. Except it was hotter.) Redwoods can inspire dignity.

A lake for calmness.

Oceans for perspective and expansiveness.

Mountains for persistence.

Rocks for anchoring and grounding.

To relive beauty in a field of dalias.

Pine trees for resiliency.

Although there is courage in travelling the world, it is also daring to sit at home with one’s thoughts for a while, risking encounters with certain anxiety-inducing or melancholy, and asking highly necessary questions like – do worker bees have sex? Maybe at the end of the day, the anticipation of travel may have turned out to be the best part.

The real voyage of discovery consists not is seeing new lands, but seeing with new eyes.                                                                              – Marcel Proust

Soon it would be August. More and more I was feeling that my city was becoming too small. Or what may be more accurate – I was becoming too small. Leaves would soon be changing to russets and golds, the temperature would be dropping. I wanted to prolong summer. It was a good and necessary time for me to leave – to let go of the out-lived. I knew no better way than time and distance. Yes, you have to be happy in your own kitchen, but there are also times when it is also good to get out of the kitchen, especially when there’s nothing for dinner. In truth, I needed to work on my faith. But more importantly, my ego needed to go for a drive. From significance to not.

Makes “Me Wanna Roll My Windows Down”

The world is a big place and there were miles of open road untrodden. So with a wholehearted willingness to inhabit my own inner contradictions, I choose roads leading me to better than inclement weather, living where there’s an actual threat of losing fingers while shovelling two feet of snow off a sidewalk.

Along with packing a floppy hat, eye-mask and three pairs of olive green socks, there was one one rather awkward item which I would have preferred to leave behind (or perhaps lose along the way) – myself. No matter how far and how fast we go, it stubbornly remains our constant companion.

But as I severely reminded myself, a defeat is better than nothing at all, as you can’t know or understand anything without experiencing it. 

An end always creates a new beginning – and any action has a reaction. These are an indisputable laws. 

Things will be here when I return, but I hope to see them with new eyes. At least that’s what Proust hoped. 

We need courage to make ourselves voluntarily homeless. Sometimes it is impossible to still the insistent voice inside, the voice that reminds us that our time on this earth is short. 

Or maybe, though it may break our heart to admit it, we may feel we are not deeply or correctly loved, slowly despairing that our partner will ever appreciate that it is not appropriate to eat sauced asparagus with your fingers.

I mean, we do need to uphold the values that we want to prevail in our inner sanctum.

Like Odysseus longing for Ithaka, we may need to leave until the place we live in, is once again able to actively honour what home should always have been.

Even at the sharpest edge of things, there are wings.

So I’m off – in search of sanctuaries in my monastery on wheels, urging me towards detachment. I knew they wouldn’t be hard to find heading towards an ocean with the certitude of craggy mountains and lush forests, rushing rivers and waterfalls, caves and womb-dark grottos.

Solitude is not difficult. I relished it. I desired it. I required it. The point is I was alone and I wanted it this way. One is not required to speak to a soul, until you need to order a tall extra hot cappuccino to go.

I know, I’m the envy of least two of my friends.

By the way, If you are interested in exactly where I am going, do not phone my cell or my enemies will be alerted. Instead head to your nearest bus stop. There will be a man reading the Calgary Sun and wearing a purple hat. Ask him for a glass of juice. If he responds with, “Yes, it is a sunny day”, he is my associate and will give you a sealedI know, I’m the envy of least two of my friends.envelope containing the exact location of my destination. If he is not there, or does not respond with that – run.

Julia Cameron writes, “An artist must have downtime, time to do nothing. Defending our right to such time take courage, conviction and resiliency. Such time, space, and quiet will strike our family and friends as a withdrawal from them. It is. For an artist, withdrawal is necessary. Without it, an artist is vexed, angry, out of sorts. If such deprivation continues, our artist become sullen, depressed, hostile…An artist requires the upkeep of creative solitude. An artist requires the healing of time alone.”

Ah, that would explain many of my moods. It’s always reassuring to cite someone famous that can exalt crabbiness in 12 pt. Garamond.

Someone once gave me a Chance Monopoly card that reads, “Get out of Drama Free.” I keep this near.

I could also point a finger at Jesus. He seemed to be able to pull off this goodness thing. For example, He took buckets of water from people who lived in the desert and turned them into wine. I guess it seemed like a pretty good idea until everyone woke up in the morning. 

Happy trails.

A few years ago, when we were still using carved turnips as a form of monetary exchange, I left Edmonton for Calgary, lured by the liberal arts education promise of being taught how to live.

I mean, it’s really all I dreamed about.

As the reality soon fell short of that promise, I began keeping my own record of what I was seeing and experiencing in the classroom of life, mapping this academically unaddressed terra incognito of being with the utmost concentration.

But as my intellectual, creative, and sommelier development began to unfurl, I realized that there was a distinct and important lack in my new life – I was not ever going to be offered my own Netflix series showcasing my inner Marie Kondo multipotentialite. But then again, lolling on the sofa is perhaps not the optimal moment of which to derive a true picture of reality, given my mind wanders like Jews in the desert.

So two days ago, with encouragement from pretty well no one, I thought that since I seemingly have a captive and semi-loyal cyber audience, I would offer up my vast and varied thoughts to you, my unsuspecting readers.

I had no idea that this would animate me with a new sense of purpose.

This would now become both my mission and something to do for a couple of dull Saturday nights. I also hoped this would be of great historical importance. To whom, I’m not sure.

Now there are some salient core principles involved when undertaking such a fundamental endeavor.    Number 1: Ours is a culture that measure our worth by our efficiency, our relatives, and our ability to only have 2 sets of sheets per bed.  Anne Dillard said something like – “How we spend our afternoons is how we spend our lives.” And some of our afternoons are spent trying to fold fitted sheets properly. Note: It can’t be done.

Number 2: There are those who have no instinct for discarding.

We live in a culture where one of the greatest social disgraces is not having enough stuff, so we often form our “opinions” based on the number of ‘Likes’we get from our Facebook posts, or the mutterings of the person in front of us in the coffee shop line-up, without investing the time and thought to come up with our own true feelings.

Yes, I’ve heard all the excuses: Your great aunt thrice-removed gave it to you, your children will need it if they ever deem to move out, you might lose the other four exact same items, it was made for you in summer camp, it will fit when you lose weight, etc, etc, etc.

It’s time to cultivate your right for negative capability. Just say, “No”, and take your God-given poetic license to just move it out.

I mean, once you start overachieving, people expect things from you.

Number 3: Expect anything tasteful to take a long time. It’s hard to capture something so fundamental, yet so impatiently overlooked, as organizing a closet, yet the myth of the harmonious closet is not a myth. Some might call it the source of our suffering. Thus our present definition of success needs redefining. For example: 1. Is the closet thinned out and clothes colour-blocked? Are there matching hangers? Are there items in there that look like you might send figs in? (I’m not always sarcastic. Sometimes I’m sleeping.)  2.  Do you so love everything in it that it almost blows your socks off?

3.  How are the shelves? Is the floor clear of encumbrances?

4. This one is easy. Does it remind you of sitting in a Ralph Lauren showroom? Or does it look my housekeeping – there appears to have been a struggle.

5.  And the last one. Are items grouped together: skirts together, shirts together, and elastic-waist pants together?

Number 4: Presence is far more intimate and rewarding than productivity. Which is why some of my clients want to declutter by giving most of their clutter to me.

They would later say that this was to support their mission, but to me, it seemed like a total waste of an solution.

I can’t make everyone happy, I’m not a plane ticket.

But wait, I’m not finished. Although this blog may now be plummeting like a grouse full of birdshot. There have been times where I walked in off the street and said, “‘Oh my God, I’m so sorry! I seem to be in somebody’s basement!” The inside of the house looked like the work of a miniaturist beaver. A heap of random objects – the raw core of their life. Sometimes it’s all I can do not to run shrieking from the house. And the world starts to divide. There would be all sorts of wild and wonderful things with nary a lacuna: towers of discarded books, lamps wth shades removed, piles of old magazines bound in tormented seclusion, a chair with one arm, shopping bags of bags placed precariously close to a space heater, brown street signs, bad botanical prints, luxurious collection of paper clips, an unopened case of barbecue banana chips, attachments for three vacuums they no longer owned, takeout containers, and things old before they had any right to be. (I have not hesitated to utilize selected facts, while warping personalities and events for my own needs). You can drum up an opinion later.

So I have morosely accepted the premature demise of my nonexistent TV series and content myself with doing the moral support bit along with a pronounced case of logorrhoea pointing out the obvious, while trying not to think of the millions I would have made. 

Besides, I like to play to a packed house.