President). I have so much I want to say about this, by the way. So much. In fact, my brain is brimming with thoughts about Israel and the Palestinians. But, I don't feel qualified to drag my thoughts out into the open. I didn't even know that much about it until I started reading a book about it via one of my latest (and greatest) courses via Athabasca (incidentally, I read somewhere that this school is apparently not doing too well financially, but that's a whole other ball of wax). Nobody wants to hear about me and my education. In fact, if there was anything that held the sidelines in this world, it's my education. My education which I am clawing my way through like a mole digging a tunnel in the dark. Every little handful I can grab helps. Yet, everything is a struggle until it is not. Until it immerses itself into a sense of learning and knowing and then it is all about me. Me and my reflection in the mirror. Me and my skin which is aging in the bright sunshine. My silver hair that is appearing out of nowhere like the glint of metal in bright light. I like it, but I don't like it. Growing my hair out so it can release itself from the grips of the boxed blonde is not something I particularly relish at this point in time. I just don't want to. I just don't. So that's chapter two of ball of wax one.
Work. Work is? Work. But interesting in strange ways. Repetitive yes. Let me just point out here that for most of my life I have equated repetitiveness with shear terror. I mean, I used to believe repetition was the telltale sign of a wasted life. The opposite of "artist". I have had to really hold a hard line with myself on this issue this week. Twice I almost literally leapt out of my chair and bolted for the door at work. Then, I realized I'd be giving up something if I did that. Money, obviously. Responsibility, definitely. I had to tell that side of myself to just effing cool it. COOL IT. And so I cooled it. And the next thing you know, time passed and I came back home and here I am. Big deal? I would attribute that sense of panic with a sense of entitlement. Nobody is going to pave the way for my family and I. We are going to build our road day by day, cobblestone by cobblestone. I attribute that sense of panic with a sense of being "better than." I am "better" than this job that is so repetitive. I am better than this. Than him. Than her. Than you.
So I had to ask myself: do you really think that? Do you really think you are more special than the other 9 billion people on this planet? I should hope not. I should absolutely hope not.
So my mind drifts to the state of the world. I could go on and on about the ways in which I am blessed to live in this country. I am blessed beyond scope if I really think about it. Yet, I see the oppressions that plague my province, too. I see all kinds of things that make me rage inside. I raged all the time, once upon a time. There are so many unfair things that happen in this world to people who are just like me. I want you to know activism is meaningful to me, but I also want you to know that I have seen it fail miserably. I want you to know that I am living a life where the best thing I can hope for for myself is a repetitive job that, formerly, would have sent me into a suicidal tailspin. It's all just for now. I have learned to accept the things I cannot change. Bad people get rewarded. Good people get what they get. Oppressions continue but we are all oppressed by one thing or another. We are oppressed by our own egos if nothing else.
If I keep my cool, as I mentioned earlier, I find myself lost in a moment where I am talking on the telephone to a man who says he's been "gone" for the last twelve years. He doesn't say where. Or why. He's just been gone. Maybe he was a prisoner of war. Maybe he was just in prison. He doesn't know anything about technology other than the fact that he knows he would like to have a decent WIFI signal so he can watch Netflix. And like that four million feet of snow out there, it humbles me. I realize this man is lost in the sea of technology. It's not good to him. Yet, he seems to know that he needs to get on the train or he'll be left at the station. He knows that and I can hear it in his voice. It sounds a lot like fear, but there is a hint of hopefulness there as well. Maybe the sound of my voice will be enough to help him realize he can get through another day because there is an awful lot of good stuff to watch on Netflix. I can at least help him with that. In fact, I'd be honoured to.
And so it goes.