Gone fishing

I can't stop looking at this photo of my Dad's tombstone.  It's very strange to think that the man who was my father lies beneath that freshly turned grey and rocky soil, dead, and soon to rot.  It's funny how I don't think of him in heaven or in hell, even though I like to believe there  is something more after we die.

Maybe his soul has already passed on to another, and he's already beginning a new life as someone else's child, later to be someone else's spouse, and someone elses parent... Regardless of where his soul has gone, I feel certain that the man that was my father doesn't exist anymore, and I feel a strange sense of peace with that thought, for both he and I.

All that yelling and fighting, the anger and the drinking, the hate...  it must have been just as awful for him as it was for the rest of us. I can't imagine it not being so.  He was a mean bastard, there's no doubt about that, and yet now that he's dead, now that he and I have shed all the hurt that came between us in our lives together, I can now see the good things that I got from him. Nothing is as black and white as we make it out to be.

Looking at this tombstone I remember - from my Dad I got my love of nature. He'd take me fishing, and blueberry picking; every Christmas we'd all go out into the woods to choose and cut down our tree,  and every spring, after a cold hard winter we go off in the car, and walk for hours along old hauling roads so that we could find and bring back bunches of May Flowers for my Mom. 

In the summer, whenever the mood struck, we'd  take the punt out to the mouth of the harbour where we lived.  We'd sit there for hours with our fishing lines cast over the side of the boat, letting the weight of the baited hook sink to the bottom where the big fish were, giving it a jig now and then to get their attention.  We'd share the joy of each others catch, - cod or pollock, the occasional flounder or haddock, and once a year we'd fill the boat up with mackerel, and in turn fill up the freezer with our catch. 

Whenever we had fish for supper I felt proud that I had played a part in providing it, and I dont know if it's just wishful thinking or not, but I swear my Dad and I shared a look and a secret smile when the fish was layed out on our plates.  I don't know if my father meant for me to learn these simple lessons or not, but it was something very good that we shared, and to this day I love being in the natural world. I find peace and connection there, when I'm sitting beside a bonfire, or  when I'm out on the lake in my kayak. I'll spend hours fishing,  even if there's nothing for me to catch. But when I do catch something and I bring it back to the campsite to share with my Wife, there's nothing finer then knowing I  provided that simple meal.

Even when my Dad was dieing in the hospital, he  talked about how he hoped he could get out and go fishing soon. There's no doubt in my mind, that like I do, he got something more from the activity than just a pleasant pastime.  He never left the hospital; he died only two months after being admitted to the cancer ward. My brother Paul cried because he couldn't give him his wish, couldn't take him fishing before he died. 

So when I look at my Dad's tombstone and read 'Gone Fishing' it's nice to think that if there is such thing as heaven, that where my Dad has gone there's this big lake with lots of fish in it for him to catch.  And I've no doubt, that if that place exists  I'll be joining him there when I die. And maybe someone will write 'Gone Fishing on my tombstone as well. 

Their Loss or Mine?

A friend of mine has always told me that when he loses a friend he tells himself it's their loss, but I've never understood that way of thinking, because I've always seen myself as the one left behind. The one doing the leaving thinks it's a good idea, while I'm the one that's sad because they're gone.

But now I think I'm beginning to understand what my friend meant. If someone I've become friends with decides to make a retreat or end the relationship, I shouldn't always take it so personally, especially now when I'm in the middle of a transition.  For one reason or another, that friend no longer identifies with who I am now, or where they think I'm going. But the thing is, I do!  I really do!

I may be losing friends because I am changing, but I'm gaining them for the same reason, - those who appreciate me how I am now, not how I was.  Perhaps when I lose a friend I should see it as a sign that I'm not standing still. It's highly likely that I'm the one that's growing and moving on (perhaps we both are). If I believe in myself and trust in the direction I've chosen, which I do, then I have to believe that what I have to give another in friendship or in love is worthy of another choosing to walk with me, ... and since I believe that where I am going is a wonderful place, then it is in fact their loss, as well as mine, if they don't choose to share it with me.

But those who share the path with me NOW, those are the ones that matter the most! They're the ones who I admire and who inspire me, and perhaps the fact that they have chosen to walk with me as well, means that they admire me, and I inspire them....

Whoa!  I really like how that feels, that I can be inspiring to another.

Thank you Mike and Oz, for sharing your wisdom on this subject with me. It's certainly taken me some time to make it my own. I'm hoping that means that I will remember it and be able to keep it, because I think this might be something I really need to keep.

Copy Writer; I like how that sounds!

So I just did something spontaneous and outrageous, something that someone, like me, someone without much confidence, just doesn't do without weeks of painstaking thought, soul searching and preparation.  ... I signed up at Textbroker to be a copy writer!

Hell, I don't know, maybe in my efforts to stroke my own ego I have erroneously convinced myself that I can write, and that it's possible for me to make a bit of money doing it, or maybe I'm just bored and desperate and need to start a new project to feel useful and alive again.

Regardless of which case is closer to the truth, it's a done deal.  I've registered, and I've written the required short article so that the folks at Textbroker can give my writing skills a rating. The rating they give will decide how much I  get paid per word. It's a starting rate, and that can change as you become more experienced, so I don't have to worry that what I submitted is the be all and end all of my writing career.

There were a couple of topics  I could choose from, nothing to inspiring: sight seeing in your home town; where to party in your favourite city; describe an object, or, write about your favourite brand....  Well, I'm not much of a brand person, but I did recently drink an enjoyable bottle of merlot, so I took advantage of a recent blog post of mine, revamped it, and submitted it as my evaluating article.

It was fun to do. Now I'm hoping that the folks at Textbroker will enjoy reading it  at least half as much as I did writing it, even if I did stretch the boundaries of the topic, just a bit.

Here it is for your pleasure, and unbiased scrutiny:

I found this bottle of wine, called Screw it Merlot in the liquor store tonight. It has a bold, full bodied flavour, with a fruity finish, and with a name like Screw it!, it’s the perfect wine to say good riddance to a stressful work week or an unrequited love affair.

I don’t like myself much when I’m stressed out; I’m not proud of who I become when others reject, or dump their baggage onto me; I don’t bear it well.  But once the weekend arrives, I can put my feet up and relax with a glass or two of this charming Merlot and say screw it all, and by Monday morning I’ll be back to being my old lovable self once more. 

Who knows, maybe if I can turn that charm up just a notch or two, I won’t have to sit home alone next Friday night as well.