I am often overwhelmed by the scale and complexity of the world. Like how can there be enough lemons for the whole world each day? How can we build all the buildings, ships, airplanes and coordinate all the tiny parts needed for each? How can each of us own so many individual things that no one wants when we move or die? How can we eat breakfast in Halifax airport in the morning and then be near London Heathrow picking any three items for £6 for supper.

And where do all those Tesco turkey, bacon and cheese sandwiches get made anyway? 

Having just finished “A Week at the Airport” I am imagining that they get made just like airplane meals “in a windowless refrigerated factory [a mile from Heathrow, where] eighty thousand breakfasts, lunches, and dinners, all intended for ingestion within the following fifteen hours somewhere in the troposphere…made by a group of women from Bangladesh and the Baltic…foods that would be segregated later according to airline and destination now mingled freely together, like passengers in the terminal.

That Halifax airport breakfast I remember from last November was served to us by a woman who had already gotten her kids ready and dropped off at school before driving more than a half hour to the airport to start her shift. 

Book author Alain de Botton was commissioned to immerse himself in the inner and out workings of Heathrow Terminal 5 as Writer-in-Residence. The stories he shares range from the heartbreaking to the sublime. I was riveted. 

My whole life, I have watched people in public spaces like airports and wondered about their lives. How long was their commute, I’d wonder, for the tired looking flight attendant who must have just finished their shift? How many kids did they have at home? Or did they live in a tiny flat somewhere in London where they could go crash peacefully? Were they exhausted by their work or did they love to fly the skies? 

Was that passenger who cried during the flight leaving loved ones or flying to a sick parent or their funeral?  How come my seat mate refused all food and water offered on a transatlantic flight from Paris to Toronto, while trying to convince me to take a call from his niece who was trying to find work in Canada. And should someone offer to help that mother whose toddler is crying? Yes. Always yes and it should be me if I am having this thought. 

And what about the people who get taken to private rooms in Immigration in larger airports?  Did you know that there is a room at Heathrow Terminal 5 that has toys one can keep, plus ample snacks, for kids whose parents are being questioned?  

Large international airports are like cities whose ‘residents’ come from every corner of the globe. They are anxious, exciting, overwhelming places. Their scale and logistics boggle the mind. As does the number of lemons they must use in the run of a day. 



 

I’m an improved version of myself, for me, and others.  Perhaps that seems like an arrogant and subjective claim to make about myself. But as I am making it solely as a reminder for me, as a point in time reflection, so be it. 

How do I know I have changed for the better? 

I know because today we have the good fortune to be moving to our camper for some weeks this summer. Normally, I’d have insisted we all agree on a rather early time to be on the road, fully packed and out the door. Instead, today I got up and read the final fifty pages of my book*, spent twenty minutes on my yoga mat, and have been packing up the final things less urgently. The me of a few years ago would never had allowed this. 

While it may all sound rather Zen, the path to here has had lots of resistance and urgency inserted along the way. It seems to take me trying ALL the different approaches to learn what feels good and what doesn’t.

Whatever patience or calm I am bringing at the moment could evaporate in a flash. But for now, writing a short blog post in the middle of packing up, while others move around me seems, like an incredible victory on my growth path! 

*The book was Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow by Gabrielle Zevin. Really good! 

I saw my therapist today. She often reminds me of a change model that resonates.  Picture a circle in the centre with three concentric rings around it.  In the centre is the “comfort zone” which she says is more accurately labelled the “what I’ve always done” because even if it is my usual behaviour it might not feel comfortable at all. Immediately outside this core is a ring of fear. Naturally, I’ll feel fear if I try something different than what I have always done. For me, this can be saying no when I would usually say yes, not reaching out to check on someone I would usually check in with, or showing anger that I would usually swallow. Gulp. 

Happily, once through the fear of doing something differently, there is the learning ring. 
Did it go ok? 
Could I tolerate it? 
Would I do it again? 
What I am learning? 

Make no mistake, what I might learn is that initially I suffer a lot when I change. This is not evidence to revert necessarily, but it is information to notice. 

And finally, the outer ring: growth. This is where whatever trials I have done can help bring me to new awarenesses and ultimately a changed way of being. 

The whole model makes complete sense to me intellectually. In practice it is heartbreaking and heart opening all at the same time. 

When I first met Peter, I was fond of a wire that was strung across his mustard yellow dining room wall. On it hung a curated mix of prints: letterpress posters, postcards, tiny business card-like treasures and assorted other things. It was clearly his doing, his work, his tastes. His selections spoke to his high creativity and intelligence, his quirkiness nerdiness and his courage to stand out. I was already falling in love with him and this helped seal the deal. I had no idea I would later learn to be a printmaker too. But that is not what this is about.

Somewhere along the way, in our endless declutterring, uniting our lives (and things), and painting that mustard yellow wall navy blue, the wire came down. And it stayed down until today.

This afternoon we installed the wire in our hallway. It is a place for prints we’ve made or works we love from others. From many possibilities, we chose one of his, one of mine, two from Peterborough printmakers Peter knew, and an intricate hand-drawn piece by my artist friend Bruce Roosen.

I love the look of it. I love the potential of it. And I love that we get to create things to hang on it.

But mostly, I love that the wire reminds me how grateful I am that I get to love Peter.

Today feels like a wasted day.

It’s not that it didn’t have productive elements. (A walk, yoga, reading, paperwork, studio work, and cleaning). I did enough of the “what” to make progress on some things. Lots of it was a privilege even though some of it not preferred.

“How” I did the “what” in my day is another story all together.

I was annoyed. I was in my head overthinking and defending. I was hot. I felt itchy. I felt lonely and not seen. I didn’t smile. It was a sunny and hot day and I didn’t leave the house all afternoon even though I could have.

As I write, the grumpy aura still surrounds me.

What to do?

Blame others? Blame myself? Talk it out?

Minimize it? Avoid it? Breathe and trust that this too shall pass? Pound pillows? Dance?

Write a blog post (which itself could be an intellectual dodge)? Eat chocolate chips? Overthink it more?

The only things I haven’t done yet are dance and pound pillows. These are what might help me most but I’m not promising anything. What if it actually works and I need to let go of my little funk?

One thing I will do is press publish because I’ll bet that I am not alone in this.