Traveling The Road Not Taken

Lonely in Ireland, since it was not home,

Strangeness made sense. The salt rebuff of speech,

Insisting so on difference, made me welcome:

Once that was recognised, we were in touch

Their draughty streets, end-on to hills, the faint

Archaic smell of dockland, like a stable,

The herring-hawker's cry, dwindling, went

To prove me separate, not unworkable.

Living in England has no such excuse:

These are my customs and establishments

It would be much more serious to refuse.

Here no elsewhere underwrites my existence.

Philip Larkin, The Importance of Elsewhere

Fifteen years ago, I had the good fortune to attend the Courtauld Impressionist exhibit at the AGO in Toronto. Wandering past the jaw-dropping wonders of the Monet's, Manet's, van Gogh's, and Degas', I came into a room devoted largely to Cezanne. Never my 'favorite' (whatever that might mean when we're talking art of this magnificence!) and already overwhelmed by what I'd seen, I was prepared to move relatively quickly through this space. But I couldn't. I found myself rooted to the spot and staring at the several views of Mont St. Victoire, a favored subject of this artist, with the growing awareness that I'd missed something very profound -- not that day, but some three decades earlier.

That road had led me to Aix en Provence in 1969 where I was somewhat serendipitously 'stuck' for three months while I waited for parts for my motorcycle. I wiled away the time in this beautiful Romanesque city in the south of France, sitting in cafes, making shallow acquaintance of the rich variety of peer-aged students associated with the various institutes and universities, picnicking in the foothills below that very Victoire -- and all the while, all but oblivious to this being the home of Paul Cezanne. That day at the AGO, I'd been granted a second entry -- and this time I noticed.

Our conversation began, as it so often does, with a question from my wife: did I think it was foolish for one her age to be investing so much time and energy into studying music at what amounted to a beginner's level? She'd just finished a weekly, online theory class with an extraordinary teacher, the 'classroom' populated by two other students, both bare adolescents (if that), one of whom has successfully completed her grade 10 music performance requirements, the penultimate in piano. The musical equivalent of entering university at age 12! Cowed by this young gal's musical prodigy and feeling somewhat overmatched, my wife was nonetheless a little confused by the degree to which this young and future performer struggled with the 'architecture' that musical theory comprises; at once, hugely proficient in the playing, but lacking in the (ultimately) essential foundations that allow for a full appreciation of the 'language'.

Our discussion broadened to the more validating view that, by revisiting her musical training -- begun in her adolescence and progressing to grade 6 at the time -- my wife too was taking a 'second go' at that road not taken the first time, at least in any real sense of the phrase, and throughly steeping herself in its richness. The purpose this time round was not 'getting there as fast as I can' -- but truly enjoying and experiencing the trip. And perhaps as importantly, noticing that the second opportunity had presented at all. 

This week's CBC Tapestry segment (http://www.cbc.ca/tapestry/episode/2013/02/22/lamenting-the-road-not-taken/) underscores the choices we have when confronted with the awareness that we've 'made a wrong turn' and perhaps opted for a path that, at present feels unfulfilling; or an opportunity missed. Mary Hynes' conversation with Adam Phillips is an examination of the ways in which we often pine for the 'the other fork', the one that would almost certainly have made us happy (or at least happier than we now feel). We mourn, we compare the 'what is' with the 'what could have been', we become obsessed with the 'gap', the shortfall -- and we embrace a recipe for continuing sadness, frustration, discontent.

Phillips' thesis, in part, addresses what we could be doing with that other road. He contends that our 'laments' are in fact useful material that might reflect aspirations, dreams, goals that can and perhaps should be explored in one's current life position -- not merely employed as 'war stories' or badges of 'victimhood', nostalgic reminiscences.   He also explores the (almost cliched by now) concept of 'being present' and how the 'other road' represents a 'stuck in the past' comparator that seductively insulates us from our present lives and inevitably is destined to be our own Glass Menagerie -- a lifelong longing for what might have been.

The Larkin poem that heads this piece, captures the essence of this concept. An Englishman in Ireland, he embraces 'the difference' and as a result feels welcomed, 'in touch' with his immediate, though 'foreign' setting. Returning home to the routine dissatisfactions of his own country, he shifts, conscious that dreaming of a better place, away from what is serves no purpose and that his task now is to fashion a co-existence with, an acceptance of this immediate reality. A very succinct statement of Kabat-Zinn's 'Wherever you go, there you are' concept!

A regular mindfulness practice affirms all of the foregoing aspects of that other road. It teaches us to notice, allow, and engage the present reality. It apprises us of the folly of being stuck in the past; or, alternately, fearing for or expectantly (and possibly, unrealistically) awaiting the future for what it might contain -- but probably won't -- be it angst or redemption.

A personal thought: the next time the other the other fork presents, take it, 'again, for the first time'. The analyst, Robert Johnson, in his brief but very compelling little volume, He, supports this suggestion in the most poetic of ways. Within the context of the Parsifal story in the Legend of King Arthur, Johnson describes this callow and foolish youth's stumbling into the Grail Castle, with the opportunity to fully engage all his hopes and dreams -- merely by asking the right question. In Johnson's words:

Every youth blunders his way into the Grail castle and has a vision that shapes much of the rest of his life. Like Parsifal, he is unprepared for this and does not have the possession to ask the question that would make the experience conscious and stable within him. . . (and) the next morning find(s) himself back in the ordinary world. . . No youth can cope with this opening of the Heavens and most set it aside, but do not forget it. . . A few, like Parsifal spend the rest of their lives searching for the Castle again. . . (while) one has to only "go down the road, turn left, and cross the drawbridge" (to quote the Fisher King).

  

The Mindful Metaphor

Miss Stevenson, my grade 11 English teacher, was quite the marvel. She somehow kept us engaged as we plodded thru' Great Expectations, struggled with 'that Scottish play', and drafted précis after précis as she prepared us to distill lecture content into succinct points that wouldn't produce writer's cramp in the first ten minutes. But her real achievement was to instill a lifelong love affair (well, at least for some of us) with grammar. The marvelous structure on which (diminishingly, in our world of Twitter) our ability to communicate is built. Parsing sentences, identifying parts of speech, regretting the dangling participle, eschewing the one-sentence paragraph. While the synecdoche's  and the oxymoron's have largely slid off my radar, metaphor has remained.

Humbly, by definition: a 'figure of speech wherein a word or phrase is applied to an object or action to which it does not literally apply'.  What I've come to realize and appreciate over the years, however, is that metaphor is not just some esoteric figure of speech used by authors and abused by sports analysts. It's a tool crucial to our understanding of circumstance and process, when the content is often too complex or abstract or unfamiliar to enable us to grasp a concept. A well-turned and appropriate metaphor makes accessible to an untutored mind the wonders of the quantum physics on which our universe is thought to depend, the nuance of symphonic music, the workings of a disordered mind -- all without a whiff of an idea of calculus, harmony, or psychopathology. It brings things 'down to our level', at once simplifying and elaborating in accessible and understandable terms.

Therein lies both its utility and its risk. In short, use of metaphor should perhaps be a 'protected act'. (It's OK -- two sentences.)

Consider, if you will, the content of the world's best selling volume -- right behind Fifty Shades of Gray. That would be the Bible.  Metaphor all. Little did the authors, millennia ago, conceive for one minute that a) anybody would actually assemble these writings into a semi-coherent whole, b) use them as a basis for two of the world's great religions, or c) and this is the big one -- take it as literal truth. Sadly, not at least until the recent writings of Marcus Borg or John Spong, did it occur to an unsuspecting public that 7 days, 40 years, virgin birthing, burning bushes, angels, heaven, hell, and everything in between were 'phrases applied to objects and actions to which they are not literally applicable'. No waiver on the flyleaf; centuries of abuse and literal interpretation to follow.

And then there's the poorly conceived metaphor. I had occasion to read a transcript of a lecture given recently wherein the church is compared to a parent, its sheep (oops, there goes another one) to children. Seemingly all a-OK as we conjure up the wisdom, experience, guidance, morality, teaching points, and generally just good stuff to live by -- associating these with the parent and its propagating institutions; the rebelliousness, experimentation, challenging, mistake-prone, impulsive behavior -- attaching to the child. The intention of the 'implied comparison', of course, is to portray the institution as patient and tolerant; the sheep, as it were, as wayward and misguided, but soon to come to its senses and 'return to the fold'.

Sadly, again, metaphor, once 'let out of the barn', has the annoying capacity to be carried by those on the receiving end to a more extended and, in this case, unanticipated conclusion. After all, the intent is to make a relationship fully understood and 'manageable' for the audience. Right? Ah, but the child does not simply wake up one morning, post-adolescence, and 'realize' its mistakes; and come groveling back to a forgiving parent. The child is, in fact, 'paid' to individuate, to develop its own ideas, and to continue to foster a completely independent identity that -- wait for it -- is intended to change and evolve and extend the ideas of the parent; not simply to parrot what mummy and daddy have so fondly hoped would become the mantra of said child. In fact, it is the psychologically unhealthy (or at least, incomplete) child that returns, chastened, to the corral. 

And so what begins as a half-baked metaphor, emerges from the oven, fully risen and ready to convey the very opposite of that which its designer had in mind. We're in it this far. Let's just give it a tug and see where the metaphoric thread, when pulled, might lead us -- as we watch the intended sweater unravel and resolve into a pile of tangled yarn on the floor. Could it possibly be -- praise be -- prophetic, not pathetic? Could the lecture have been intended to float the concept of the need for complete revision, the dissolution of such anachronistic institutions; to be not merely redesigned or redecorated, but wholly supplanted by an emerging spirituality of the individual -- capable (not unlike our maturing child) of thinking for himself, without benefit of an intermediary to 'interpret those really tough bits'; tired of caring for the aging, demented parent with its rants and entitlements. Hmm? Or is it just another case of playing with a loaded metaphor and shooting oneself in the foot?

Ego and the Morality of Misrepresentation

What is it with the need to be seen for something we're not? Or at least aren't quite? In the political forum, it's called spin doctoring. Not outright lying. Just putting a bit of undeserved polish on last Fall's apple. I suppose it started with a chance encounter between my wife and an old acquaintance not seen in several years. Predictably 'catch up' was initially the order of the day's chat. Exchanges of who was doing what, where one now resided, how this member or that of family had managed. . . and so on. The talk for my wife, ever the good and modest listener, evolved into something of a monologue; the theme seemingly to persuade her or at least portray for her an intervening life of successive successes, fortuitous marriages, real estate and neighborhood upgrades, and . . . well, just a very shiny apple. As the conversation was shared and processed over dinner, we were left with a few abiding queries: what's this need to convince, to compare so favorably, to be seen as. . ?

Clearly that dinner time conversation had made its mark as a similar theme presented a few more times in my experience over the ensuing few days. Next up: Little Dorrit, the typically fascinating and (always) convoluted Dickensian tale of rags to riches to rags (depending on your moral compass) of this family. Midway thru' the story, patriarch, William Dorrit is released from debtor's prison where he has resided -- and held something of a fool's court -- for much of his later adult life. His fortunes have changed courtesy of the intervention of a family friend who has befriended his daughter, Amy and unearthed the presence of the family's entitlement to a large fortune. The transformation is, however, one simply of fortune and residence.  The patriarch's values remain unchanged, driven by a need to be seen as 'what he has ever been': a gentleman of great importance and influence, as he adopts (or rather maintains) his sense of superiority, need for deference and homage, and very (very) quickly dismisses his benefactor as of no further interest to him. Most repellant to him is to be reminded of his time in Marshalsea, the debtors' prison; his most constant reminder, daughter Amy and brother Frederick who are very content to portray their grounded constancy, eschewing of the 'airs' so speedily embraced by William. A sort of 649 winner set in the 19th century.

'Can you tell me what a philosophical psychologist might be?', my wife's query as she hit the back page of our local newspaper over the weekend. Curious, I scanned the column of this sometime 'writer and academic' -- and up popped the final entry in the ethically challenged sweepstakes for the week! To the lay person, adopting such a moniker is often no more than an easy shorthand or label, useful in conveying a sort of general concept or idea or suggestion of something or other. And therein lies the problem: the adopted title does indeed convey an 'idea of something'; in this instance credentialing that carries with it a certain expertise, a weightiness to one's words and opinions. The very reason such titles are protected under the law in Ontario. Which begs the question: 'why attach it to one's writing -- in the absence of entitlement to it?' Hmm, indeed.  To be charitable, there's the outside possibility that said columnist is simply unaware of the protected status of said title. Bookkeepers refer to themselves as accountants, lay clergy as vicars, law clerks as lawyers. In ignorance of 'the rules', the forgiveness of 'no harm, no foul' obtains. We can only hope that our 'philosophical psychologist' is, indeed, ignorant. For if not. . .

In mindfulness tradition, the view of ego and its appetites may offer some measure of insight into the questions at the top of this piece. In our western culture, ego is a highly valued commodity. Possessing 'ego strength' is typically seen as a 'good thing'. It conveys a measure of self-confidence, certainty, poise; lacking it, suggests ambivalence, self-doubt, marginalization and functional invisibility.

Mindfulness teaching, however, takes a very different view of ego.  In his chapter entitled 'Deconstructing the House That Ego Built', Lama Surya Das (Awakening the Buddha Within) associates ego-ism with what he calls the three poisons; the activities in which the ego needs to engage to feel vital and alive. Again, these activities are familiar to students of mindfulness practice: like and dislike, attachment and aversion, greed and hatred -- essentially the 'enemies' of equanimity, balance, non-judgment, letting go. The fear or anxiety of not being valued or liked, not being held in high esteem or worse, being hated or dismissed, of not having the power to influence outcomes, not being 'picked for the team' -- all sources of 'ego-angst' -- may underlie some of the compulsion to engage in what I'm calling the (a)morality of misrepresentation.

Images from Little Dorrit (2008) BBC production.

 

Seeing Without Observing; Hearing Without Listening

Maria Konnikova is the author of a new book on mindfulness: Mastermind: How to think like Sherlock Holmes. In it she explores, among other things, the apparent paradox contained in the title of this piece. Just how is it possible to see (and not make note); to hear (and not absorb any of what's being said)? Easier than you'd think! Ms. K. (in an excerpt from her book available at the link below) begins with a seminal quote from a Conan Doyle mystery wherein the long-suffering Watson is embarrassed yet again with Holmes pointing out something that Watson himself had 'seen' hundreds of times -- but had never 'registered'; something elementary, my dear Watson, in Holmes' oft repeated put down of his bright, loyal, well-educated partner in crime solution. Something that was right under his nose, yet never noticed.

At the very core of mindfulness practice is a cultivation of the observer self. This rather elusive aspect is very often overshadowed and out-muscled by his mindless sibling, the sensorially-deprived, participant self. The latter laddie, this would be Watson, quite blissfully, sometimes judgmentally, and most often obliviously engages in his daily routines, quite 'insensible' to what's going on in the present moment. He finds himself being carried along on long trains of thought, leap frogging free-associatively from one experience, opinion, plan, anxiety, regret, or fear to the next -- generally missing the immediate (and obvious, to Sherlock) content of the right now.

My wife and I had occasion to join my daughter and her partner for a Sunday brunch in London this past weekend. On the three-block walk from apartment to restaurant, pausing at a traffic signal, we all noticed the week's old lab puppy, none too patiently waiting across the intersection -- but fortunately held in check by his owner's leash. Light changes and we all proceed. In that brief crossing, I watched as the puppy was greeted and scratched by my daughter, sniffed at the pant leg of another pedestrian, attacked and subdued an errant piece of ice in the roadway, and was surprised by a puddle forming in gutter. I noticed as well that, each of these 'events' were followed by a gentle tug from the owner's lead, pulling our puppy back to present focus -- getting safely across the street in the time allowed by the signal.

I could readily see the 'participant puppy' (although at perhaps 8 weeks of age, he might be forgiven) being swept along by a sequence of, to him, random events, streaming into and out of his consciousness at mind-boggling speed. The tugs on his leash pulling him back (for the moment), before being carried off yet again. Noted meditation teacher and writer, Jack Kornfield devotes a section of his book, A Path With Heart, to training the puppy as follows:

Meditation is very much like training a puppy. You put the puppy down and say 'stay'. It gets up and runs away. You sit the puppy back down again. 'Stay'. And the puppy runs away over and over again. Sometimes it jumps up, runs over and pees in the corner. Our minds are much the same as the puppy, only they (can) create even bigger messes.

For me, a second case in point occurred this past weekend -- on one of those rare, sunny winter days. A mid-morning trip to a nearby town, took me across a dam near my home in Stratford where I noticed several ice fisherman and their shelters scattered across the frozen surface of the adjacent lake. And made a mental note to return late in the day when the sun's angle would provide better photographic light. The sun held sway and I was back out with camera in hand. I've travelled that ten-kilometer stretch between home and lake hundred's of times -- in 'seeing but not observing' mode -- typically (near always) on 'my way somewhere'. Maybe it was 'a trick of the light' or the presence of the camera on the seat beside me, but this time, on the return trip, I 'observed' things -- a long-disused windmill, kids playing road hockey in an alleyway (on 'hockey day in Canada!) that I can safely say would have just  been part of peripheral events, seen but not noted on any other day.

Mindfulness practice is just that -- a practice. We are, in the words of Mark Muesse, another meditation teacher and lecturer, typically in a default mode of mindlessness. Most of us, cruising along in participant mode, rarely have the 'Sherlock experience' of seeing what is before us. If we cultivate a regular practice, train the puppy, we have the capacity to become Sherlocks, to truly live mindfully.

http://m.theglobeandmail.com/technology/science/brain/book-excerpt-how-to-look-at-the-world-like-sherlock-holmes/article8115992/?service=mobile

A Safe Haven - that makes us smarter

The new BB has hit the market -- and, at least for the sake of RIM, hopefully not the deck. As expected, this newest version of the smart phone boasts all the usual bells and whistles -- faster surfing, more apps with quicker switching between same, speedier downloads with a bigger screen (??) on which to watch . . And on and on. Just the candy (again, hopefully) for this sugar-starved population. Slowing down, doing less at one time is becoming an increasingly hard sell in this world.

I had occasion to read John Allemang's editorial in this weekend's Globe and Mail, Psyched in the City, and was reminded, yet again, just how vulnerable we are to such appeals as the new  BB Z10 and all its wonderful 'capability'. The column considers our essential neurological inclination to soak up as much information, input, stimulation as we can -- up to a point! The research he reviews suggests that, historically, this has been a good and adaptive thing. In past times, when things were so much simpler -- but arguably more precarious (no sabertooth tigers around the neighborhood last time I checked) -- it was important to be vigilant and to process as much information, central and peripheral, as possible. Our safety depended on it. Evidently not so much anymore -- and it's not just the drop off in the tiger population.

Allemang identifies another trend, the increased congregation of folks into more concentrated geographic pockets -- aka, cities. Our hungry little brains now have just lots and lots of stuff to absorb. So much so, that another evolutionary trend has been identified: our brains are also becoming rather selective -- once we hit info-max! In everyday talk, this translates into our innate ability to focus on a specific task, shutting out what the brain considers extraneous or irrelevant. Otherwise we'd all be reaching for the Ritalin and bouncing off the over-stimulated walls of the attention deficit disordered.

That's the good news. The bad news, to quote Mr. Allemang is that 'cities take distraction to a level undreamed of on the primeval savannah, to the point where the urban form itself can be blamed for messing with our minds'. In other words, an uncritical reliance on our own built in filters -- to shut out the irrelevant in the over-busy, over-stimulating environments that our urban environments increasingly represent -- is no longer sufficient. In fact, it can get us into serious trouble. He cites the almost cliched example of driving in city traffic while checking our incoming voicemail / texting. The brain, ever dutiful, is very likely to interpret the driving part of this scenario as the 'irrelevant' piece, the 'urgent' response to a changed lunch date in one's inbox as the more central, focal task. Oops.

And cultivating a multitasking skill set is not the answer. In fact, once again, this much touted (and now increasingly fueled with the advent of newer, faster, more multi-tentacled toys) capability simply does not exist. What does exist is our capacity to switch quickly between tasks -- provided the choices are contained to a reasonable number. Beyond that limit, it's ADHD time folks!

And so our choices. A place in the country. Perhaps. Or quite possibly a place in the city (actual or metaphoric) that gives the brain a rest. Additional research supports the view that breaks in low-stimulus zones -- I think we call them parks -- not only gives the brain a chance to relax and restore creativity, but it also is likely to improve our memories and equip us to pay more productive attention once we return to the war zone. The metaphoric equivalent of going to the local green space, of course is a regular mindfulness practice. Short of entering an immersion tank, the skill set that such a practice cultivates is exactly the ticket: one-pointed focus (in an environment where it won't lead to a close encounter with a telephone pole), reduced stimulation (only the breath), and a chance to turn off the smart phone.

John Allemang's article is available at the following link: http://www.theglobeandmail.com/technology/science/brain/how-our-brains-deal-with-the-chaos-of-city-life/article8122255/

Image from Globe and Mail, Mcleodwoodside.

Polarities

When people see some things as beautiful,

            other things become ugly.

When people see some things as good,

            other things become bad.

Difficult and easy support each other.

Long and short define each other.

High and low depend on each other.

Before and after follow each other.

Ch. 2, Tao Te Ching, Lao Tzu; Trans. Stephen Mitchell

A natural human inclination is to think of things in pairs. The preceding meditation from Lao Tzu's wisdom, however, describes another human tendency: the attaching of a value or judgment to these pairs -- one side characterized as 'good', the other 'bad'.  Or more properly, when we attach a value to one element, by default, the other assumes its opposite. Even the Taoist graphic above tends to elicit this bias: light (good) / dark (bad); yin (compassionate, flexible, patient -- good) / yang (aggressive, rigid -- bad); female ('good')/ male ('bad').

The second portion of this quote attempts to describe a 'healthier' perspective. In place of judgment (of one or the other), we are encouraged to explore the relationship between, the existence of one's dependency on the existence of the other, the natural (and necessary) sequencing or cycling of events, their temporal harmony. So common as to almost be cliched, we check the weather in the morning; and are pleased to see a warm, sunny day in store with a light breeze and low humidity. The prospects of a rainy, cool forecast, with winds from the East -- well, not such a happy prediction. But then where would we be with only the former. . . and none of the latter? It seems that the real trick is to establish a posture that values, accepts, and welcomes the current state -- since we seem to have very little choice over it anyway! 

As usual, a couple of conversations. The first with a neighbor I'd not seen for some time, she just having returned from a four-day, solo retreat in an idyllic spot on Lake Huron.  We met in the late evening street, walking our respective dogs. I was feeling cold and tired and a little resentful that our one Westie was doing her usual delaying tactics; the other two were worrying our neighbor's dog, five times their size and rather bemused by the whole exchange. I made a comment about 'hating re-entry', a reference to the transition from a period of blissful solitude and reflection to the urgency and 'noise' of the day-to-day routine and demands -- very likely a projection of my own past experiences. Our neighbor, not unlike her dog, seemed a bit bemused by my (evaluative) comment, considered it for a moment and replied that 'it is what it is' (the 'it' being the present circumstance). I had initially considered my comment to have been an expression of some sympathy and support for what I'd assumed to be a surrendered state of peace and insulation from the busy-ness she was about to re-engage. I was reminded, on reflection, that I'd done precisely what Lao Tzu warns of: celebrating one state and, by extension, denigrating, debasing another. The alternative: valuing, accepting both -- for what they are.

On a semantic level, a conversation with my wife triggered a similar awareness. She and her instructor in Alexander Technique had been discussing what she considered to be the guiding principals of this approach: Inhibition and Direction. Again, my subjective response, my associations, particularly to the first of these is, well, negative. Years of psychology linking inhibition with repression, forced containment of instinct, etc. had jaundiced things for me. And I was reminded how easily we apply a value. In practicing the technique, which in my elemental understanding, has a great deal to do with cultivating an awareness of body posture, then 'directing' oneself to adopt an appropriate and helpful orientation, one must 'inhibit' counter productive postures to enable healthier ones. Hardly a negative act.

Action, reaction. Sympathetic, parasympathetic. Flexion, extension. All paired, all intimately bound to each other. Not a 'good guy', or a 'bad guy' amongst them.

A large part of mindfulness teaching is based on cultivating a balance in our day, in our views, in our attitude. The wisdom is contained in the concept of equanimity. In brief, this is the practice of accepting what comes with a calmness and a composure, with a nonjudgmental perspective; the capacity to consider the 'polarities', extremes, or opposites from a balanced point of view -- without attribution, without assigning a 'valence'.

That this wisdom has practical value is underscored for me almost daily as I review the basics of cognitive behavioral therapy with individuals struggling with anxieties and mood issues. The approach espouses very little different than adopting an equanimous view of circumstance: collecting 'data' for a variety of interpretations, or 'automatic thoughts' -- those which both support and challenge the (reflexive) 'hot thought'; all with the same goal -- developing a more balanced view.

Choice

The following piece is not about mindfulness. It was, however, precipitated by a conversation, two actually, about same. The first, a short one, with my wife, following her (usual) proofing of such writing. 'That's pretty grumpy' in summary comment -- and 'where's the connection to mindfulness?' The second was with a zealous young man, fresh from a frustrating confrontation with an institution which, in place of accommodating him, had chosen to 'apply the rule book'. In need of grounding, we discussed and redirected. From reactive and impulsive action to alternatives. From impugning the 'opposition' to an understanding of the position occupied by the 'down on a lower rung' foot soldier with whom he'd been dealing. From immediacy to patience. From blindered vision to perspective. From reflex to intention. And, deciding if 'this is the hill I wish to die on' -- picking his fights. Hitting the pause button and becoming self-aware. This piece, then is my. . .

Choice

So how do you kill a rat -- or at least turn him (females deal much better with ambiguity and lose/lose situations than guys, regardless of species!) into a hopeless neurotic? Simple. Create a prohibition with no reasonable, alternate choice. In B.F. Skinner's laboratory, this might have looked like posing the 'choice' of pressing a bar to get food; and, in the bargain, electrifying the floor on which one is standing. Do what's good for you and what's bad -- all at the same time. Hmm?  As the good Dr. Skinner discovered, in the short run, you get a really confused rattus norvegicus; long term, one with tummy ulcers and. . . Or you could just plunk him on a bicycle in and around Stratford.

So, when the invite to join the incipient Stratford Bike Club arrived in the in-box, I had a careful look at the ambitious scope proposed. Laudable to be sure: raising a cycling consciousness in the community, arranging rides, disseminating information on safety, rules of the road, bike repair, liaising with area cycle clubs. Open to all ages. As a veteran rider (7000 K logged this year), cycling advocate, and longtime member of the former and now formally dissolved Festival City Cycle Club (insurance premiums became prohibitive), -- a free Big Mac and spare inner tube to the first person who can name the designer of the club's logo* -- the mandate had a familiar ring to it. Back in the day, it only made sense to promote all these sensible and appealing benefits of two-wheeled transport: community-building, environment-saving, health-enhancing. An absolute no-brainer. Evidently the siren song persists. Been there, done that -- and frankly still own the T-shirt.

The hiccup, then, as now: Stratford, as a political and committed community of motorized, four-wheeled citizens, we're not really interested in supporting those weird folk that trundle about on bicycle, blocking our right of way, and who generally don't act their age. Bikes, like Trix, are for kids, right?

Strolling along our main drag, you may have noticed a creative bit of iconography making an appearance over the past year or so, not unlike the image at the left. I, like you I expect, and always assuming you own a bicycle, made the purchase with the expectation of riding (i.e., not walking) it. If I'd wanted to walk, pushing an awkward, ungainly thing along ahead of me, I'd probably have invested in a shopping cart. But as a respectful citizen whose mom raised him up good, I am content to acknowledge that sidewalks are (as the word implies) for walking -- not riding. The riding part should take place adjacent to that part of the landscape starting with 'side____' -- again as the word and icon suggest.

Now glance to your left (or right, if you happen to be walking east on the north side of Ontario St. -- and if you're looking in the front window of the Milky Whey, you've got it backwards). No, beyond the string of parked cars -- all the way to the four lanes of traffic, politely populated with eighteen-wheelers and sport utes. And cast your mind back to our confused brown rat. We want to do our 'green' bit, reducing our little part of the carbon footprint. We want to promote a healthy lifestyle, support new club spirit. These would be the 'good' things associated with pressing the little bar in Dr. Skinner's box. But each time we do so and dutifully receive our food pellet, we get that old jolt from the cattle prod. Who knew that our pedals and bike seat were installed by Ontario Hydro? We're provided the 'choice' of getting ticketed for riding in the relative safety of the sidewalk or getting honked at, cursed out, or merely squeezed into the side of one of those parked cars. Ah, the joys of choice.

Oh, I have some solutions -- bit radical perhaps, but solutions nonetheless. Perhaps we could begin by providing a viable option to the 'don't ride here' interdict. Stratford's current idea of a 'bike path' is to build this town's equivalent of the Allen Expressway -- essentially a road to nowhere. (For those of you that may have missed it, the most glaring albatross runs along the northeast culvert of Gibb Rd. --aka, line 29 -- for one kilometer between Hwy. 7 and the rail line; happily ending in a deadend.). The Brits seem to have this sorted quite economically in high traffic areas by demarcating sidewalks much as we do our roadways: one side of the line for pedestrians, the other for cyclists.  Then there's the old fashioned idea of painting cycle lanes on existing roadways. And perhaps the most radical of all: turning the downtown core into a pedestrian / cyclist zone.

I fear, however, we may be dealing with a situation akin to that famous lightbulb -- you know, the one that's burned out and is in need of changing by a fleet of psychologists. It only takes one of that fleet to change it -- but the bulb has to want to be changed.  Until I stop feeling the zap of the cattle prod in my chamois, I'll just keep a low profile in the country and tend to my nest of neurotic, ulcerated rats. Picking my spots. Acting with intent. Om.
*Answer next week