The accidental hug

Today I accidentally hugged a stranger. It could have happened to anyone. I was entering the front doors of the Victoria General Hospital where I work, and an older gentleman held open the first of two doors for me. "Thank you," I smiled, and held the second door open for him, saying, "I'll return the favour." He then stretched out his arm wide and smiled. "Awww, that's so sweet!" I thought, "He wants a hug." So I stretched out my arms in return and moved in. He turned sideways at the last minute and patted me on the back, saying, "Thank you, dear." It was then that I realized he was not stretching out his arm to hug me; rather to gesture that I should go ahead. It could have happened to anyone.

I was once afraid of hugs. Well, not afraid, exactly. I just felt awkward in situations that involved hugging or the potential for hugging. I don't come from a huggy family, so it always felt a bit strained and a little stiff to me. Sure, I'd lean in for the obligatory hug, but I'd make it quick - get in and get out and no one gets hurt. Knowing my own hugging issues, I used to enjoy watching other people hugging at airports. There were the true huggers - the ones who embraced others with every ounce of their being - and the reluctant huggers, who only ever hugged at airports and even then it was a quick, distant hug with a half-hearted back pat thrown in for good measure.

I always envied the true huggers and aspired to one day be among their ranks. At some point in my adult life, and I don't recall when, I decided to be a hugger. A real one. A hug-for-all-you're-worth person. An "If I love you and maybe even if I just like you, there's a chance I'm going to hug you" kind of person. As it turns out, I like hugs. No, I love hugs.

So today, I expanded my hugging repertoire to include a perfect stranger. I'm not sure what he thought of the whole thing - he seemed a bit flustered. But me? It made my day. I might hug strangers more often.

Look at me!

When kids learn a new skill, like hopping on one foot or skipping for the first time, they shout, “Look at me! Look at me!” (and they’ll keep shouting at you until you do). I love that.

I remember as a kid learning to count to 100, and coming to the realization that if I could count to 100, I could count to 200, 300, 400 – as far as the hundreds could go – and who knows where from there (a million seemed an aspirational goal). I counted aloud to my parents so they could witness my brilliance (I’m confident this was not at all irritating for them).

Somewhere on the road to adulthood, most of us lose the “look at me” factor (sometimes it’s replaced with “please God, don’t look at me, whatever you do”). Maybe it’s because we’re taught bragging is unattractive (and anyone who’s ever been in the same space with someone who drones on about their accomplishments knows there’s more than a grain of truth in that). Maybe it’s because we realize that in many cases, other people can do the same things we can, like hop on one foot, skip, or count to 100 and beyond – sometimes even better or faster or more gracefully than we can. Somehow, we get the message, “you’re not so special” and we act as if it’s true.

As children, it’s irrelevant whether everyone else in the world or no one can hop on one foot – we couldn’t do it before and now we can. It’s cause for celebration. It’s “look at me” worthy. There’s something about sharing our success that makes it that much more exciting and rewarding.

Every one of us accomplishes things every day – big and little (Today I had three productive meetings, I learned how to position the little man on google maps to get the street view AND although I was tempted to stop on the way home and get takeout, I opted to go home and make dinner, making a healthier choice for me and my wallet). Look at me!

Ironically, I think what many of us fear about so-called failure is that people will look at us and judge. They might just do that (although that’s probably more about their own fear of failure than any innate failing in you or me). Or maybe, they’ll see someone who is willing to jump into uncertainty and try something new, knowing that before you can master the proverbial hopping on one foot, there’s a period of flailing and arm waving (maybe even falling) as you find your balance. Then one day, you just do it, and it seems odd to imagine a day you didn’t know how. When this happens, remember: There's a whole lot of joy in: "Look at me!"

Reclaiming the title

It’s been six months since I last blogged. Surely I sit on the precipice of being a non-blogger. Perhaps I’ve already tipped over the edge. But if the latter is true, I am still hanging on by my fingertips, madly trying to swing my legs back up to retain the title.

And ultimately, it’s my title to reclaim – by blogging. I struggle with the discipline of a blog (perhaps it’s more accurate to say I struggle with the discipline of life). I see others’ blogs and note that they’re pretty religious about it – or at least committed to breathing life into it regularly (I am in the midst of doing CPR compressions to my blog as I type). Their followers check back frequently to read the latest happenings and insights, confident that there will be some.

My challenge (I’m throwing down the proverbial gauntlet at my feet) is to just do it. Some people are exceptionally skilled at setting a goal and acting on it – no procrastination, no excuses – they just move forward. Those people annoy me. And yet, I admire their drive, their stick-to-it-iveness.

For many of us, goals are a matter of five steps forward, four steps back (on a good day). In January, the smell of resolutions wafts in the winter air (and depending on which way the wind is blowing, the scent can be sweet or rank). We’ve got high hopes – of eating nothing but organic vegetables and brown rice, of never losing control of our emotions, of shedding three sizes or writing an award-winning book. Maybe we’ll do those things, maybe we won’t, but the question is: Are we setting ourselves up for success? My friend Janet Murphy (www.ordinarymom.ca) has inspired me by setting mini-resolutions for herself – small, achievable changes that will serve her and her family.

When I think about my own mini-resolutions, I know that one of them is to write – not a prescribed amount or according to a rigid schedule and not because I “should,” but because in my heart, I am a writer. Blogging is one outlet for my writing – and one I enjoy. Taking the time to write - whether through my blog or another vehicle - is a gift to myself, and you can never have too many of those.

To you, my readers, I can’t make any promises on the frequency of my posts, but I can say this: I’ve climbed my way back from the edge, and I like the view from here.

The Double Door Ssss Phenomenon

Over the years, I've observed a phenomenon I just today dubbed the "Double Door Ssss Phenomenon." Allow me to explain.

Going through a set of double doors, a person holds open the first door for the person coming behind. If the recipient of the open door is polite, they're almost sure to respond with "thank you" or "thanks."

Next, quite predictably, the helpful person in front holds the second door open. The follower isn't quite sure what to say. He just said "thank you" five seconds ago, and saying it again just seems like politeness overkill. However, to abstain from saying thank you could be interpreted as rudeness. What to do? More often than not (pay attention - you'll see it's true), the recipient of door opening #2 will say, in a voice just above a whisper, "Thanks." In fact, the "thank" is almost inaudible, and all that remains is a "ssss" sound.

In fact, "ssss" is the universal sound of thanks for the opening of the second of double doors. At malls, hospitals, office buildings - indeed wherever there are double doors and people holding them open - you'll hear the "ssss" of gratitude. Watch and sssseee.

You're welcome.

O Canada

I have noticed that when groups of Canadians (including me) join in the singing of our national anthem, we often do it tentatively, softly, as if singing too loudly would somehow put us in the company of our patriotic (dare I say brash?) neighbours to the south. When in a crowd of people singing our anthem, I find myself judging the volume of those around me, then choosing a decibel level right below that. If the people around me choose not to sing, I feel downright uncomfortable, singing barely above a whisper. I don't think I'm alone. Save for events where a professional singer gives the anthem its due, I've rarely heard someone belt out the Canadian national anthem. Do we feel it too brazen, too bold, too...un-Canadian?

As a nation, we take great pride in our modesty (although that seems an oxymoron), our politeness (although, let's not kids ourselves, Canada breeds rude people too) and our quiet strength. We are the country most others like (although our standing in environmental matters may detract from our popularity somewhat). We are, for the most part, admired.

And what's not to like? We are a free country. As much as we gripe about our politicians (and sometimes for good reason), we have the great privilege of being able to choose them. We are free to express our opinions, read what we want, learn new things, pursue our passions. We are wealthy in our natural surroundings, blessed by oceans, lakes, mountains, trees of myriad shapes and sizes, and prairies. And while we may sometimes curse our weather (a Canadian pastime), we enjoy the diversity of four seasons (be they unequal in length) and our exposure to unpleasant weather makes us truly appreciate the joy of a sunny, clear day. Our provinces and territories each have their own unique culture, climate and points of pride; I hope one day to have visited them all, and am grateful that dream is achievable.

I wonder, then, why I hesitate to sing O Canada from the very depths of my belly and soul - the same place that genuine laughter and sorrow come from. This morning, CBC Radio played a recording of children in grades primary to three singing O Canada. Their pitch was off, their timing wasn't perfect and the lyrics were sometimes garbled, but this much was clear - they were proud to be Canadian. They were singing from their hearts. As a proud Canadian, the next time I find myself singing the national anthem, I'll take my cue from them.

Bring back the lambies on jammies

I have noticed a disturbing trend of late in infants' and children's clothing: the skull-and-crossbone pattern. The first time I saw children's flannel pyjamas with a skull-and-crossbone design, I thought it distinctly odd, but chocked it up to a one-time occurrence - perhaps some adult had leftover skull-and-crossbone flannel (it happens, I'm sure) and decided to make a matching child's pair (not to be judgmental, but this is a parent-and-child duo I would not want to meet in a dark alley).

However, when I went shopping for a sleeper for my cousin's new baby, I realized that the skull-and-crossbone theme had infiltrated children's attire. There on the rack was a skull-and-crossbone sleeper - available in sizes newborn to 24 months. Shortly thereafter I saw a toddler wearing a toque with a skull and crossbone on the front.

Do we feel our babies have been coddled too long with duckies and lambies? Let's not wait until they're school age to show them the dark side of life - let's break it to them just after they've taken their first breath - or at the very latest before their first tooth has broken through. And really, why stop at the skull and crossbones? Those skeletal hands that appear on corrosive cleaning supplies are sure to be a hit on little mitts and booties. And how about putting a little flammable sign onto their sweaters?

In addition to questioning the dark rationale behind the choice of pattern, I have to wonder about the confusion it will cause. We teach our children not to touch anything with a skull and crossbones on it - it means DANGER. Then we put their skull-and-crossbone pjs on them and send them to bed with wishes of sweet dreams.

I know that times change, as do clothing styles. But there are just some things you shouldn't mess with, and babies are one of them. Bring back the duckies and lambies, I say. There's plenty of time to mess up our kids in adolescence.

For the love of a dog

On October 22, 2004, I drove out to Musquodoboit Harbour (Greyhound Pets of Atlantic Canada) with a friend to meet and pick up my new dog, Ruby. I had wanted a dog since childhood - it was a big day. After picking up the necessary supplies for greyhound ownership, Ruby and I got into the back seat while my friend Louise drove us home. Within a minute, Ruby lay down, putting her head in my lap. It was love.

We spent the first few days establishing the rules. You sleep in the crate. OK, sleep on the floor by my bed if you want. Well, if it means that much to you to sleep on the bed, go ahead. And you might as well get up on the sofa while you’re at it.

I introduced her to my parents, long-established non-dog lovers. “Grandma and Papa’s” hearts were quickly won over, their home becoming her favourite spot to visit (and one of the few prompts that would entice her off the comfort of her sofa and into the car.) And what wasn’t to like? They gave her treats and bones (safe ones), leftover veggie scraps, walks and loads of attention. Her only expression of discontent was when my dad would watch TV in the den. She’d butt at his arm with her head, saying, “Come out and pay attention to me.” I remember stopping at my parents to pick her up one evening after being out and seeing them sitting in the living room with an old black-and-white TV set propped on the end table. “She didn’t like us watching TV in the den,” they said. And that was that.

Saturday morning walks with our friend Judith (and more recently her dog Ellie, who had more energy than Ruby appreciated) were the routine. While Judith and I had coffee at Steve-o-Reno’s, Ruby would wait in the car with her head out the window, watching for the first sign of my return. Evening and weekend walks at Shubie Park and around the neighbourhood with my sister Nancy and her dog Rin Tin (who learned quickly that Ruby required a gentle touch and wasn’t much for play) were a highlight for all of us. As Nancy and I chatted after our walks, Rin Tin would tentatively approach Ruby and lick her ear, backing away just as quickly. They established a friendship of sorts, even stretching out on the same blanket on Christmas morning as the rest of us opened our gifts.

Every day when I came home from work, Ruby would greet me at the door. She’d then grab one of her two favourite stuffed animals, which were always nearby, and pounce on them once or twice (this was the extent of her daily play) before we headed out for a walk.

Mostly, Ruby slept. As my friend Catherine jokes about dogs, “They sleep all day to rest up for the really big sleep at night.” Ruby enjoyed few things more than stretching out – on the sofa, on the deck, on my parents’ carpeted floor or on her favourite blankets. Sometimes, I followed her lead. There’s something very therapeutic about a good nap.

On one of the occasions that we had overnight company, her sofa was occupied for much of the weekend, much to her dismay. Seeing no other option, she climbed into a small armchair. As dogs do, she circled before sitting down - her rear perched awkwardly on one arm of the chair and her front end on the other arm. We humans laughed until our stomachs hurt at the sight of her gangly figure positioned so uncomfortably, while she tried to look perfectly at ease. She protested our mocking by getting up and leaving the room. And when our company left, and she reclaimed her space on the sofa, I could swear she smiled.

Not everyone appreciated her beauty (see Skinny Dog). A few of the neighbourhood kids insisted she was a deer (and to be fair, she did bear a striking resemblance). To me, she was a stunning beauty. Her gentle, steady and loving presence was a gift.

On March 10, 2011, Ruby died. I underestimated how much grief I’d feel at losing her. While it’s getting easier, I still miss her, and know she’ll always hold a very special place in my heart. Yet, in spite of the sadness, I wouldn't trade the experience of having had her in my life.

I’m not sure where dog spirits go when they die, but I imagine her stretched out somewhere on a blanket in the sun, comfortable and relaxed, needing nothing, feeling loved.