Something on my Mind: Change! (Part 2)

As we hinted at last week, there is a restless change and a restful change. One is the product of growing pains; the other, the product of growing up. The shift from one to the other takes time, energy, and pain. And sorry, there are no shortcuts.

I have learned a few things things in the past thirty years, lessons that you can learn from me, without going through the hassle and frustration of beating your head against the wall—like I did. The context is "change," and what I have learned from harnassing its awesome power.

In other words, a change in this approach, a tweak in that response, and I suggest four keys to a successful life:

1. Be true to your word. If you say it, mean it. If you promise it, deliver it. If you blew it, admit it. I am finding more and more that it is a character quality that is becoming a rare commodity.

It's at every level—parent and child, teacher and student, employer and employee, law and citizen, politician and constituent, for starters. In a world of passwords, checkpoints, and political correcness, there still remains nothing so effective and reassuring as one being true to one's word.

2. Live within your means. I am coming across more and more people within my varied worlds who have massive debt issues. They buy things they don't really need and can't really afford, so by the time the end of the month comes, there are more days than money left.

Home by home and nation by nation, it is a colossal problem. I have learned the hard way, and thanks mostly to my frugal wife, we do our best to live within our means, though it can still be a monthly struggle. Again, in those care-free (and actually careless days) of that prolonged adolesecnce, such was not the case. We want it, we buy it, regardless of its affordability. And we 're "paying" for it now big time, pun intended.

We buy beyond our means because we want to change our wardrobe, follow the latest fashion, or well, everybody's got one. Once maturity kicks in, you tend to see the folly of a trendy lifesyle—and can get your financial house in order.

Whim and wish get replaced by pause and plan. Measuring once, then cutting twice, has now been replaced by measuring twice and cutting once. This is part of economic change that kicks in at maturity.

3. Think through conseqences. You are a freedom-loving, independent human, and this is how you have been designed. Good for you. So far, our freedoms to choose have not been completely shut down by Big Brother, the PC Police, or the mindless liberals. But just remember that all choices have consequences—financial, sexual, vocational (and I'm just warming up). Look before you leap; pause before you buy; think before you speak. And don't foget to read the labels.

And think generationally. It's not just about you: It's about the next generation, and the one after that.

4. Cherish the simple things. "Simple" means unencumbered and uncomplicated, foundational and fundamental. Such things could include any or all of the following: time for relationships; appreciating the wonder of nature; speaking a good word here or there; taking in a good book, movie, or CD. Again, this list is suggestive, not exhaustive

Life gets increasingly complicated as one gets older, so there has to be a concerted effort to slow down, take a breath, and embrace the essentials, the things that really matter. It's hackneyed but true: Slow down and smell the roses. For me, I'm still looking for the roses; I don't even know what a proverbial rose looks like. In fact, I don't even know how to spell R-O-S-E.

There is also the issue of semantics, which I have alluded to this already. Don't be afraid of your "comfort zone." It has a weary and wary connotation with it. It suggests the timidness of a wallflower (translation: someone is afraid to move out of what they are comfortable with).

Well, not quite so, Zorro. Sometimes, at least from this sixty-two-year-old's perspective, there is a place for the tried and true, always being there. There is that steady, dependable perspective, one that could be miscontrued as "comfort zone." It usually takes years to arrive at this place.

Comfort zone, then, can be seen as the space for one who is at peace with themselves, secure in their identity—and that's a good thing, not a bad thing.

Change? Or change! Well, what do you want for the "rest" of your life—rest-less or rest-full?

 

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Something on my Mind: Change?

I think one of the most accurate signs of growing up is how one views change. The shift, then, runs from being young and frequently changing to old, er, mature, and rarely changing. I'm in the latter category: resistant to change and growing up as I am growing old.

I personally have run the gamut of being very much an agent of change for change sake to an agent of change for conviction sake. I've gone from a "I'm-bored-let's-change" view to "let's-change-because-something-needs-is-failing" mood. And no matter how they appear to be similar, they are vastly different.

As I stare down my 62^nd birthday, reflecting over these past few decades, I am discovering how little I embrace change the way I once did. Don't get me wrong, I am still an agent of change, but in terms of the motivation and method, I no longer pursue every opportunity that comes my way.

There comes a point in one's life journey that those things that have been attempted and tackled no longer bring that same rush or stimulization they once did.

And there's a comfort level (also known as a "zone") where contentment is productive, where status quo is good. Believe me, I never thought I would ever say that.

In our teens and twenties (maybe even our thirties), we embrace—even chase after--change: It's the thing to do—and why not, everybody else is doing it? Our parents (or teachers or others in authority) would take a stand, so we take the opposite position, because we don't want to be the same as them. After all, what do people who have weathered life's storms, fought life's fires, and stayed life's course, know anyways?

Young reader alert: They know a lot more than we give them credit for.

In those prolonged adolescent years, it's much about "snap, crackle, and pop," with limited substance, passing fancies, and on-going rushes. It's a fickle and frenzyied gong show, if you will.

But that could also be a mask for instability (and insecurity). When you're young, change can be part of the quest for identity and acceptance. However, change for change sake may not necessarily be a positive thing.

There is a point where we may see ourselves as change agents—you know, embracing fresh and new ideas, different from week to week, on the cutting edge, and moving from idea to idea, flitting here and there--that philosophical merry-go-round, of you will: lots of movement but not really going anywhere productively.

In my day, one expression of change was hair, clothing, and music. Today, you guessed it, it's hair, clothing, and music, except there are strange hair cuts, less clothing and worse music. Oh, and there's more piercings. And these are simply outward expressions; there are many others.

As we slowly mature (I'm avoiding the word "age," as I am neither wine nor cheese), we usually implement change because whatever was working is no longer effective. It's a measured pro-active (not reactive) choice. It's not so much change for change sake any longer, but change for a better, more pragamtic result.

The old adage, "been there, done that, now what?" fits in well here.

For me personally, it has taken years of hard knocks, tough experiences, and major disappointments (and maybe throw in family life while we're at it)—maybe we should call it "the school of life"-- to "see the light." At 62, I wish I had known then what I now know I've heard that line for years; now I'm repeating it.

Every imaginable habit, every possible perspective, has been tweaked —and it's a good feeling to be comfortable with who you are. I may or may not like who I am, but I am who I am, and I am okay with that.

I better slow down here. After all, this is a column, not a diary.

Once I have found something that's tried and true, I stick with it longer. Once I am able to tweak a "mistake," I have no motivation to changed it again.. And again, when it comes to "old people," I long more than ever to benefit from their wisdom of experience, even at my "young" age.

Maybe, just maybe, that's why I talk to myself more these days.

 

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Something on my Mind: Who Owns Our Kids?

There are a lot of disturbing issues in the news these days, ones that could lead to even more disturbing trends. These trends, in turn, are becoming entrenched in our Canadian culture.

I call them "disturbing" because A. I'm writing this, not you, so I can call them what I want; and B. I look at life through Judeo-Christian eyes. This worldview is different from, say, a Marxist-Leninist or even a Secular-Humanist worldview—which are prevalent viewpoints today.

I have grown to appreciate the Judeo-Christian perspective (based on its longevity, track record, and inherent truth) because it has many solid principles. Some are as follows: males are males and females are females; marriage is between a male and a female; children are the natural outcome of such a union; and these same children are the primary responsibility of those parents.

Now, did you sense any venom or malice in what I just wrote? I didn't think so. You would have to be high on something to react negatively to what I just wrote. If we cannot write or talk about what we differ on, without a fight, we are sunk as a nation. Finished. Toast. Caput.

You see, freedom of speech, one of our most cherished rights, also means freedom to disagree.

I find daily there are many views with which I disagree wholeheartedly, usually in the media and government. But you'll never hear threats nor f-bombs in my response; those kinds of responses are the petty practice of a morally bankrupt culture or third-world dictatorships. I trust we haven't stooped to that.

So with all this Bill 10 brouhaha, the transgender stampede, and their related collateral damage, the question begs: Who owns your kids? The "state"? The education system? The peer pressure pack? And here's a doozy: the church?

I can help you answer that question: Parents do.

Why should thousands of parents from every jurisdiction, many religious affiliations, and a variety walks of life, feel they have to attend rallies in downtown Calgary and Edmonton (as they did in mid-May), to protest their outrage at the government's intrusive and invasive interference with Alberta's families?

At every level, from the laws that come out of Ottawa, right down to the laws of common sense and propriety, parents have a prior right over every other institution. Let me repeat for emphasis: Parents have a prior right over every other institution.

Is every set of parents—two-parent and single parent—the greatest and wisest, the most perfect and the most together in the world? Of course not. No one in their right mind would say that.

But parents are the ones who brought the children into the world. They trained and taught them. I would think they are the most qualified to determine what's best and right for their own kids. What is wrong with our world that I even have to state this in a column?

It's simple, it's tried and true, and, pardon me, it's right.

However, while this conversation starts with parents, there are other agencies they can work with. Parents could work in concert with government, various types of school systems, friends and neighbours, and, of course, the church. We are all in this process together and should draw from our collective wisdom.

However, at the end of the day, parents should still have the final say in what is best for their family. Parents should not be excluded when it comes to significant decisions or trends for their families—something that has been happening in recent months.

So if dad and mom do not want their "Susie" exposed to a male pervert in the girls' bathroom, isn't that their right (and responsibility)? If dad and mom don't want a panoply of sex-related matters—say, toys, tips, and teaching-- crammed down their children's throat(s), do they not have the right (and responsibility) to object?

I am so sick(ened) and tired of the state telling good solid parents what they should do with their kids. The state could suggest or maybe offer, as long as there are options. But threaten or dictate? I don't think so.

In other words: State, keep your hands off our kids. They're ours, not yours.

 

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Something on my Mind: Camp Can-I-Ask-This?

There are some things I love to do, the odd thing I'm okay with doing, and other things you would never catch me doing.

So I confess that I just spent the better part of a week doing something I thought I would never be caught doing. Some would call it wilderness camping. I would call it "Daniel Boone meets Survivor."

After all, what else would you call four days without wi-fi, electricity, and running water? The "no wi-fi" was fine: We campers all spent a lot time talking to each other, you know, the old-fashioned way of communicating. The "no electricity" was fine, too: I couldn't use my clock radio or shave with my electric razor, but, then, I had a watch and I don't use an electric razor.

The third inconvenience, no running water, was slightly more aggravating, although we drew water from the river and worked the gravity angle. It was the showers (or the lack thereof) that were the biggest problem.

Uhmm, maybe that's why they gave the flies and me our own tent...

The camp was about an hour and a half west of nowhere, though I suppose nearby Nanton or Longview should count as "somewhere." They call that part of Alberta "Kananaskis country."

My primary role for the week was that of a teacher, and as challenging as that is, that was nothing like the challenges of the rest of the stay. So let me repeat them (as I try to win some more sympathy):

Challenges? I propose that not having a shower for four days was a challenge for both for me and for those within fifteen feet of me. Challenges, as having no lights at all, except the flashlight that I forgot in my tent each each night. Without a light in my hand, I can't begin to tell you how many trees I met face-to-face, as I stumbled back to my tent like a drunk logger.

Other challenges included being in different rooms that I'm not used to: not a bathroom, but an outhouse; not a kitchen, but an open-fire pit (and eating every meal that was cooked on it); and not a classroom with benches, but a thick canvas hung over logs and hand-made seats.

By Wednesday, I began to wonder if this was 1816, not 2016.

"Roughing it" was actually more enjoyable than I imagined. What I did there was eat, sleep, and visit, just like home. To be sure, there were no switches or buttons, but I survived. Okay, a little more dark and smelly, but more or less the same.

I would add "chill" here, but that has a double meaning: Chill by day was hanging out; but chill by night meant a cold sleep. How I forgot to bring my teddy bear is beyond me.

I wasn't camping in the purist sense of the word: Someone else did the cooking, had the tent already set up for me (but I had to share it with four other workers); and I didn't really have to do any prep or maintenaince work—you know, chop wood, fetch water, fend off bears, cougars, and sasquatches.

This particular camp was a rustic off-shoot of another one that was slightly more "refined" (refined: wi-fi, electrcity, and running water) and a little closer to civilization. It was a base for wilderness camps (even more rugged than where I was).

They call it Blue Bronna, though I'm not clear what was "blue" or "bronna" about the camp. It attracts workers, usually university students, who have a heart for Alberta's young people. They were great kids, and it was invigorating to work with such wholesome, energetic youth.

I would go back, but I said I don't like camping, remember? I like my conveniences, but I can certainly live without them—even for a few days in the wilderness. Just don't let my wife read this column: I have played this "I-don't-like-camping" card for thirty-five years. I'd be toast if she ever found out I enjoyed as much as I did.

That would be toast on an open-fire, of course.

 

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