How to Be Happy

Week Thirty-One: Read a Whole Chapter of a Book Uninterrupted

The reading of a fine book is an uninterrupted dialogue in which the book speaks and our soul replies.
– Andre Maurois

Picture this: a full cup of warm coffee, a clear sky with the sun shining, a cool breeze, and the gentle sound waves splashing up on the rocks. I cannot imagine a better place to get lost in the pages of a book.

My stepmother’s family owns a camp (also known as a cottage or cabin, depending on where you’re from) in Northern Ontario. A couple of years after they began dating, when things had gotten pretty serious, my husband (then boyfriend) and I were invited to spend a few weeks there. I had been to a cottage only twice before, both times as a child, so I wasn’t sure what to expect. But when I arrived, I immediately fell in love. The family camp is on the tip of a small remote lake surrounded by cliffs, trees, and somehow a sand beach. This camp had everything (except plumbing, so it was also my first of many times using an outhouse).

I’m not much of a sun worshiper, I’m not a strong swimmer, and I’d never been fishing (I still can’t believe I was invited), but I quickly discovered that my absolute favourite camp activity is curling up virtually anywhere with a book. And then another one. And another. The thing about Northern weather is that you get maaaybe four weeks of summer with the rest of the time being sweater weather at best. With the chill, you also get a fair number of impressive thunderstorms. Some years I can be outside reading on one of the docks (albeit in pants and a sweater) pretty much every day. Other years I spend my time curled up on the 1970s shag carpet with a book, watching the lightning over the lake. When I’m up there for two weeks I can easily polish off upwards of 10 books. If the weather is bad for several days, we sometimes even find ourselves reading the same books and holding an impromptu book club. Up at camp there are no demands. You are there to relax and unplug, and this year that is exactly what I did.

We weren’t supposed to be at camp this year. Because of the global pandemic we currently find ourselves in, pretty much everyone’s vacation plans were disrupted. I was supposed to travel to Scotland with my Father to celebrate his 60th birthday and my husband was planning to lead a school group through the battlefields of France and Belgium. As you can imagine, neither trip happened, so we found ourselves unexpectedly traveling northward.

It’s here that I recognize my immense privilege as someone with an income that has not been interrupted by the pandemic. I am also lucky to have sufficient vacation time to spend at a piece of property that my family is extremely fortunate to own. I have a disposable income, time, health, family, and a whole lot of books. This week I experienced all of it.

The beauty of camp is that most people who would regularly message me are either sitting in a chair on the dock next to me, in the lake in front of me, or making a quick trip to the fridge for a beer. Even when I had my phone with me I would only get the odd notification which I often couldn’t even hear over the sound of the waves, the call of the loons or, let’s be honest, the “buzz” of the beer (sorry to my friends for being an appalling texter!). It was the perfect time and place to read all the chapters of many books, completely uninterrupted.

One of many excellent reading places at camp.

Whenever I am asked to close my eyes and picture my happy place (you’d be surprised how much that comes up) I picture myself sitting on the dock, reclined in an anti-gravity chair, in the same old faded pink sweater I bring every year, reading a book. As I lie there the tension drains from my body. I often catch myself smiling at nothing in particular, just the sounds, sights, smells, and the feeling of the sun on my face and another world in my hands.

This week I read many chapters (and many books) completely uninterrupted. I ignored my phone, I ignored the outside world, and I disappeared into the stillness. It is an experience I carry with me everywhere and remembering it brings me almost as much Happiness as living it. Almost.

Sources

48 Little Things You Can Do to Make Yourself Happier Now
Elyse Gorman | @notesonbliss | ( https://elysesantilli.com/ ) on Thought Catalog

Week Thirty: Change Your Phone Screen to Something that Makes You Smile

Sometimes your joy is the source of your smile, but sometimes your smile can be the source of your joy.
– Thich Nhat Hanh

I take a lot of photos.

Every time I see something potentially memorable, something that reminds me of someone, something amusing, strange, or beautiful, I take a photo of it. I take photos of road signs, billboard advertisements, and bits of paper to remind myself of things. I take screen-shots of recipes, social media posts, and funny pictures on the internet that I am always certain I will refer back to (I don’t). I got my first camera years before the transition to digital photography; before they developed that little display screen that let you check your photo for blurriness or thumbs. When I grew up, your best chance for a clear shot was to take at least two pictures and hope that one of them turned out. This is the only explanation I can come up with for why to this day, despite the technological magic of smartphones and the Cloud, I still take two or three pictures of everything. You know, to make sure they come out.

I take a lot of photos aspirationally. I take photos because I’m sure that one day I will want to remember whatever it is that I’m looking at. I take a lot of photos because technology guarantees almost limitless space to store them and constant searchable access (I recently learned, for instance, that I can type “dog” into my Cloud app and look at just photos of our dogs from the past decade).

I take a lot of photos but I rarely look at them. Don’t get me wrong, it’s great to have Europe 2016 photos at my fingertips, but I only seem to scroll through when I want to find one specific place or memory if it comes up in a conversation. “Oh, you’re travelling to Porto? Hold on, I may have a few photos here…” I don’t seem to do what I always tell myself I will; I never take the time to actually look through my own photos.

In addition to the five shoeboxes filled with developed childhood photos and their associated negatives (I may be losing the younger generation here), I also have thousands of photos stored digitally; on old pre-Cloud computers, memory sticks, external harddrives, and a small handful of my old cell phones. I have had three smartphones since my “ancient” 2009 Blackberry Bold. As a result, I have access to thousands of pictures spanning the better part of a decade. Yet, for some reason, in all these years I have probably only used about two of them as phone background pictures. I have no idea why but I almost never change them. I have such an incredible number of images to choose from that I’m literally spoiled for choice. Maybe that’s it; maybe having too much to choose from is one of the reasons I’ve settled for the default blue background more times than I’d care to admit.

Before this week if you had asked me what my lock screen photo was, I probably wouldn’t have been able to tell you. It’s an image that has been there for so long that my brain no longer bothers to register it. So what is it doing there? The photo of the Eiffel Tower I currently have (I just checked) is lovely; it was taken on my first trip to Paris, the trip I took with my best friend, the trip where I met my husband. If I take the time to look, this picture is loaded with happy memories. But if I no longer see it, if I don’t take the time, what purpose is it serving?

This week I decided to change things up so I did something I haven’t done in a long time: I looked through my old pictures. All of them. It took me so long that I had to break it up into manageable chunks. I wasn’t exactly sure what I was looking for but I knew that I needed two photos, one for my lock screen and one for my background. As I was scrolling I came up with some criteria: the photos must be associated with a specific happy memory or place and they must feature people that I know and/or love. While a Swiss landscape would be beautiful, I figured that real people and real faces would stir my subconscious a little better than a mountain range, no matter how idyllic. My goal this week was to disrupt the automatic cycle of picking up my phone, typing in my passcode, clicking on an app, and repeating. I wanted to add a smile, a bit of serotonin and maybe even a giggle. I wanted to make a small adjustment to increase my daily happiness. And that’s what I did.

I picked this photo of Tyler and Lou Lou the dog because it makes me laugh. It may not be immediately obvious but this is not actually the picture I meant to take. This little pup is almost 15 years old and, as a result of her advanced age, she is stiff, rickety, clueless, and almost completely deaf. One day, Tyler picked Lou Lou up and put her on his lap. This may not sound remarkable – after all, there are many photos of Tyler and Lou next to each other – but this is actually a fairly unusual tableau. Because of her age and *cough* incontinence, she is almost invariably covered in a significant quantity of her own pee. I love the little wet fluffball but Tyler naturally doesn’t enjoy being peed on. So when he got her on his lap I needed photographic proof. This is one of a series of five photos I took in an attempt to get a nice picture of the two of them. I chose this one because as soon as I turned my camera towards the pair, Lou Lou began the biggest yawn I’ve ever seen. For some reason, however, when I look at this picture I don’t hear a dog yawning. I hear a dog screaming and it makes me burst into laughter. When I look at this photo I remember the hilarity that ensued as I tried to capture a lovely moment and I smile. Every time.

In 2019, Tyler and I took his then fifteen-year-old sister to Europe. She had been saving for a number of years and we made her a deal: cobble the money together for your flight and we’ll take you. My husband and I have travelled many places together – we met on a trip to France – and every time we come home I always realize the same thing: we take hundreds of pictures but of all of them, maybe 8 of them are of us. The year we met, we were each one of twelve Canadian students on a study tour in Europe. Most of us didn’t know each other so we were essentially travelling alone together. A thought occurred to me: we will all be taking photos, but who will be capturing us? One day, when we were out on a bus tour and pulled over to look at a field of poppies, I saw Tyler bending over to take a close-up. I wanted him to have a candid photo of himself, so I took a picture of the moment. Unfortunately, to my friend it looked like I was taking a picture of his backside, so she took a picture of me taking a picture of him. It became a running joke over the course of the trip and I absolutely treasure both photos. But despite this, the fact remains: when we travel together we don’t keep a great record of us, so having my sister-in-law there was actually perfect. We took photos of her enjoying herself and she took photos of us. It’s not obvious, but this photo was actually taken from pretty far away. Tyler and I were talking to each other while his sister was exploring the area. We didn’t know at the time that she had captured this moment (and many more like it over the course of two weeks) and I love looking at it. It is a photo that I never would have thought to ask for, but this sweet, candid moment never fails to make me smile.

Changing the background photos on your phone every once in a while is a small effort but a surprisingly big reward. When I pick up my phone, a smile breaks up what is usually an automatic, thoughtless process. Seeing these pictures each time is a little surprise, followed by a smile and a warm feeling of happiness. I capture hundreds of moments each year; some worth treasuring, others not. Technology has made documenting my surroundings so easy that snapping a picture “just in case” has become my default setting. This week, I interrupted this cycle. I added a little intentionality into a mundane and inevitable part of my day and it worked. I felt small bursts of joy that I never would have felt if I’d stuck with the default blue. Or was it the Eiffel Tower?

Sources

48 Little Things You Can Do to Make Yourself Happier Now
Elyse Gorman | @notesonbliss | ( https://elysesantilli.com/ ) on Thought Catalog

Week Twenty-Nine: Become a Vegetarian

It is my view that the vegetarian manner of living, by its purely physical effect on the human temperament, would most beneficially influence a lot of mankind.
– Albert Einstein

My relationship with food is nuanced.

Food is sustenance. I can’t function without it and if I forget to eat, my body lets me know with a blinding headache.

Food is creativity. I love to experiment and try new things because I grew up in a home full of delicious homemade meals.

Food is validation. Despite the stress, I feel most like myself when I can bring people together for a meal I have cooked.

Food is insecurity. I have been a female all my life and, like many of us, I inherited the shame, guilt, and misinformation about what and how much I should or should not put into my body.

Food is performative. It’s being proud that I can eat hot peppers; it’s spending too much on a restaurant meal or picking up someone’s tab; it’s posting pictures of produce from the Farmer’s Market with the hashtag #eatlocal. No matter what, there is always an element of display in the discovery, purchase, and consumption of food.

Food is love. I grew up with food as a love language and I am beginning to realize that the most authentic way I love my partner each day is by cooking for him.

Food is pain. I love all food, but for the last decade my body has been making it difficult to enjoy much of it. From chronic abdominal pain to acute pancreatitis, I can never tell how certain things will affect me. For weeks in a row, I can eat little more than cottage cheese and unseasoned vegetables without incident, while other times I can eat almost anything.

Over the course of my life I have made dietary changes for a number of reasons, including but not limited to health, physician recommendation, values, body image, social pressure, money, a challenge, and geography. When I think about it, all of these changes make an impact – some temporary, some permanent – but I never thought about making a dietary change for my happiness.

The Lazy Vegetarian

I started this week by exploring the benefits of going vegetarian. In the spirit of transparency, I didn’t consult a physician but I did do some internet research. Prevailing wisdom lists numerous benefits of a plant-based diet, including healthy skin, lower cholesterol, high immune functionality and disease prevention, weight loss and faster metabolism, longevity, higher energy, lower levels of pollution and chemicals, and a lower likelihood of depression. It sounds like a sure thing, right?

Interestingly, nothing I found (including the article that listed “become a vegetarian” on its happiness list) said anything explicitly about happiness. It’s not a stretch to draw correlations between happiness and any of the listed “benefits”; however, when I thought about my experiences with food – medical, social, and everything in between – I realized that maybe it’s a little bit more complicated.

After scouring the internet for a connection between vegetables and happiness, I started to think about my own current eating habits and how difficult it would be to make a change. That’s when I realized that about 80% of the meals we eat are already vegetarian. It has been completely unintentional but, for whatever reason, we are less likely to buy (and therefore cook) meat. Maybe it’s because it’s less expensive? Maybe because I’m more likely to eat several small meals throughout the day than three big ones so cooking a steak doesn’t make a lot of sense? Maybe it’s because I’m just lazy? I really don’t know, but it seems that my husband and I have stumbled backwards into quasi-vegetarianism without a second thought.

With this new information, I decided to increase my challenge level: go vegan.

The Happy Vegan

I know quite a few people who are or who have been vegan at some point in their lives and, over the years, they have graciously answered all of my questions about supplements, good restaurants, and the best vegan cheeses (interestingly, I haven’t heard about the same one twice). While I have inquired about the reasons behind their choices, I never thought to ask whether or not they are happier as vegans.

As with many of my happiness tasks that are really more like “lifestyle changes”, I know that going vegetarian or vegan for seven days won’t make a monumental difference in my overall health or carbon footprint. It will, however, give me a chance to unpack some of the mental and social challenges I have with food, contemplate a plant-based existence, and examine commitment to a lifestyle change.

Laura Loves Yogurt

Removing meat from my plate was the easy part. Since I decided to challenge myself to going vegan, however, I realized pretty quickly how many of my dietary staples are animal byproducts.

Back in the summer of 2018 (also known as my Summer of Hell) I was on an extremely restricted diet as a result of a number of illnesses that culminated in acute, idiopathic pancreatitis. I was not allowed to eat solid food for more than a month and when I did gradually reintroduce it back into my diet, I started with cottage cheese, fresh fruit, and Greek yogurt. When I finally got my appetite back, Greek yogurt and cottage cheese were just about the only things that made the hunger headaches manageable, kept me sane, and gave me back a sense of control over my life. Since then, they have become a constant presence in my fridge, so it goes without saying that I immediately noticed their absence this week.

My Pancreas Remains Unconvinced

Unfortunately for this happiness experiment, I experienced an ill-timed digestive episode that lasted pretty much the entire week. The constant discomfort left me feeling pretty low and that, coupled with other emotional issues, made it difficult to stay focused on my happiness. If anything, I hoped that restricting my diet would alleviate some of my physical discomfort but, alas, no dice.

Socially Awkward

One of the highlights of this week was a renewed enthusiasm for supporting plant-based local restaurants. While I got pretty bored of my own cooking (preparing food when your digestive system is in revolt is pretty much a lost cause) I was eager to try what other people made. I definitely experienced happiness by trying something new and supporting local businesses which, especially during the pandemic, is something that is very important to me.

Thanks to a supportive, easygoing, and non-judgmental spouse, I was able to eat vegan guilt-free in my own home for the balance of the week. Over the weekend, however, we ate with my in-laws and my Father and stepmother on separate occasions, which presented some unanticipated social awkwardness. My husband told his family that I was experimenting with veganism for a week and they went into overdrive making sure I had everything I needed. They set aside special food for me and offered to prepare the mushroom cap I brought to eat in place of a burger. They were so overly accommodating that I felt guilty for making things difficult for them. I have always maintained that I will eat anything and, all of a sudden, I felt like a burden at the kitchen table. I was so embarrassed that I could barely explain the point of my temporary veganism and instead, resorted to apologising profusely and telling them that it would be over soon.

The self-inflicted discomfort from the previous night prevented me from saying anything to my Father and Stepmother the next day so I ate whatever was on the table.

The Right Reasons

There are many reasons to become a vegetarian and after this week, I really felt like I could commit to it long-term. In addition to the obvious concerns for animal welfare, vegetarianism is much more commonplace now than it was 30 years ago so you’re not likely to ruffle many feathers at the dinner table. If you do it right, it is also demonstratively cheaper. I don’t share the same passion for meat that I do with fruit, vegetables, and cheese, so I can see myself making a conscious effort to cut it out.

Exploring veganism this week, on the other hand, made me really think about my reasons for doing things. Why is it that I eat what I do? Why does anybody? The thing is, I wrote and rewrote this section three times because I realized that I included animal welfare in my list of benefits as an afterthought. I’m not sure if I thought that it goes without saying that eating plant-based is better for animals, or if I was looking for a more compelling reason for my imaginary omnivorous reader.

In social isolation, eating vegan is easy if you live in a place with access to alternatives and you take the time to learn and plan ahead. I’m sure that if I tried it longer and experimented with some different types of vegan yogurt that I would adjust eventually. The hardest part of being vegan this week was the social aspect and, as I sat at the table trying to explain myself, I realized it’s because I hadn’t found my why. Or at least not one I could regurgitate with conviction. I make a lot of alterations in my life on an ongoing basis and almost everything I add or remove is in the service of doing better. I exercise to feel (and yes, to look) better. I try new things – be it food, books, places, music – to be better. I change my shopping habits and buy local because I believe it’s a better thing to do. I am happy enough sitting on my high horse and defending those choices because going to a Farmer’s Market and biking more don’t really inconvenience anyone around me.

To be vegan, to be the person that has to give advance notice at get-togethers, bring your own food to events, or ask do you have any vegan options everywhere you go, you really need to believe in something that transcends yourself. You need to be comfortable telling people no, asking for an exception, or facing judgmental remarks and eyerolls. You need to be comfortable with people not knowing how to relate to you and not caring what people think. This week has reminded me that I want to be better at this.
Being vegetarian didn’t make me happy. Getting creative with fruits and vegetables, eating local, and cooking for my husband and I made me happy. Veganism didn’t make me happy. Being patient while my gastrointestinal system threw a tantrum was hard. Getting over myself and explaining my choices to friends and family was awkward. Reminding myself to find my why and to be more confident in my choices made my Happy.

Sources

45 Things You Can Do to Get Happy No Matter Where You Are
Courtney Johnston | @CourtRJ | ( http://www.rulebreakersclub.com/) on Lifehack.org

Week Twenty-Eight: Wake Up Early Enough to Watch the Sun Rise

Wake up an hour early to live an hour more.
– Unknown

One morning when I was about seven or eight years old I remember waking up, stumbling out of bed, and wandering down the hall while my eyes slowly adjusted. As I made my way to the kitchen, wiping the sleep from my eyes, I remember being surprised by the darkness of the house. Confused and half asleep, I looked around for any signs of morning – my baby sister in her highchair, the smell of toast, my Dad’s half-finished crossword puzzle – and that’s when I saw my Mum, sitting at the kitchen table, in the dark, with a cup of tea. Sensing my panic and confusion, she gently told me that I’d woken up hours too early and that the rest of the family was still asleep. It was probably about 4 o’clock in the morning. Somehow she knew I would wake up. Somehow she knew that in that moment, I needed her to be there. So, instead of telling me to go back to bed, she sat me down and started making me my own special breakfast, hours before the rest of the house awoke.

Grown-Ups

When I was a kid I thought that adults couldn’t sleep in. I thought that one day, some time in the future, I would wake up at 5:30 am and that would be it; childhood over. When I got a bit older and met some adults that weren’t related to me, I realized that there isn’t a magical point of no return [to sleep]. I realized that my parents, through luck, habit, or circumstance, were just morning people.

Habits of Highly Successful People

I know there are a lot of books out there written by psychologists, self-help gurus, and self-made millionaires that extol the virtues of waking up with (or before) the sun. I haven’t read a single one of them. For me, the joy of waking up early comes from my parents. When I grew up I wanted to be just like them. I don’t know if they were early risers by nature or became so begrudgingly, but for me there will always be a positive association.

Aside from trying to be more like my parents, I like the idea of getting up early for other reasons. When I’m up early I have more energy, I get more done, I sleep better, and I feel like a “real” adult. I’ve heard that the “most productive people” allegedly get their best work/growth/learning/yoga/meal planning done in the wee hours, and yet despite all of that, I still have a really hard time convincing myself to get out of bed before 7 am.

Research shows a strong positive correlation between sleep and happiness; something I explored in Week Eight. Getting enough sleep gives you energy, helps you concentrate, makes your skin glow (whatever that means), helps you eat better, and gives you a more positive outlook. What I wasn’t quite sure about was the correlation between happiness and getting up early, after a full eight hours or otherwise. I did a quick internet search and once I got past the usual “climb the corporate ladder” and “have more time to exercise”, what I was left with was a very short list of tangible benefits: the house is quieter, the commute is quicker, you can watch the sunrise, and you have the first choice of breakfast items at the coffee house (I’m not kidding). Everything else on that list had more to do with time in general than time in the morning specifically. Sure, some people feel more productive earlier in the day, but nothing I found suggested that forcing yourself to wake with the sun will magically make you a productive morning person. If your work requires you to be up early, then doing so will probably increase your chances of success. Otherwise, it seems to be a matter of preference.

With this in mind, this week I decided to see for myself what all the fuss is about. After looking up the exact time of sunrise (a painful 5:44 am), I decided to wake up and try some of the early morning rituals that seem to make people happy, healthy, productive, and successful.

Monday

We seem to be experiencing some sort of heat wave at the moment. I was groggy and grumpy at first, but the cool air I felt as I walked onto my front porch immediately made up for the 5:30 alarm. I realized that I hadn’t felt a comfortable temperature outside of my house in over a week, and I welcomed the chilly breeze. I read a few pages of my book and decided to have an early shower. It was a very refreshing start to the week.

Tuesday

I finished my book this morning. I only had a few chapters to go and I was surprised by how good it felt to get through it uninterrupted. By the time 7:00 hit, I decided that it would be a reasonable time to wake my husband. The previous evening he told me that he wanted to get up when I did. I was surprised to hear this because he is not usually a morning person. I was even more surprised when he finally came to bed, a little after midnight. Predictably, when I gently shook him awake at 7:04 am, he looked at me with instant regret.

It was still somewhat cool outside so we decided to take a short walk before work. It took him about a kilometer and a half before he was awake enough to actually carry on a conversation. On paper we had more time to spend together, we had more time to exercise, and we could enjoy the relative quiet of the early morning. We could both theoretically start our days on the right foot and this, the countless articles told me, would make us both happy. The funny thing about this morning? Despite falling asleep after midnight, I felt energised, awake, productive, and happy all day. For Tyler, on the other hand, waking up early gave him precisely none of these benefits. Yes, we got to spend some extra time together, but he was so delirious I’m sure he barely remembers it.

Wednesday

One of the things these allegedly successful morning people do with their time is journal. As I have mentioned before, I’m not much of a diarist (present writing aside) but I thought I’d give it a try, so I searched the internet for some writing prompts to get me going. I lost focus about two lines in and, noticing the weather, I decided to go for a bike ride instead. It was lovely! I’m not sure if the journaling prompt itself (“what can you forgive yourself for”) inspired me to ride, or whether I was doing it to put off something I wasn’t all that excited to do. Either way, I had a wonderful morning.

Thursday

I don’t love leaving things unfinished so I decided to go back and complete the journal entry. I don’t know what I was hoping to take from the experience, although I did learn that early morning journaling is not for me. Reading back over my entry, it’s clear that I am still half asleep and at an utter loss for what to write about. I think I’ll stick with journaling before bed from now on. After I finished the trainwreck of an entry, I did a half-hour home workout which ended up being a more energising and motivating way to start my day than sleepy navel gazing.

Friday

I stayed up pretty late last night so I decided not to get up with the sun today. I thought about calling it a night because “I had to get up early” but I’m glad I didn’t. I was up until 1:00 am because Tyler and I spent the night listening to music and watching a spectacular thunderstorm from our bedroom window. The heat had finally broken for the first time in weeks and the sky absolutely opened up just after we got in from our evening walk. Fortunately I happen to love thunderstorms, although I probably couldn’t have fallen asleep if I tried; the thunder was booming and the lightning illuminated the entire house. On top of that display, our music streaming service put together a curated playlist of all of our “top picks” of the last year. It was a strange mix of Classic Rock, EDM, and everything in between. Among the highlights were those moody songs we both played in high school alongside Celine Dion and Scotland the Brave. It was an hilarious late-night sing-a-long.

So, when the alarm went off at 5:30 am, I decided to ignore it. I was exhausted, I was comfortable, and I was happy. I could have stuck to my plan and cut the night short, but if I had, I would have missed the best part of my week.

Happy, Sleepy, and all the other dwarves

Did waking up at 5:30 end up making me happy? Or was it a perfect collection of circumstances? This week, the weather was so hot that the only moments I could comfortably step outside the house were the wee hours of the morning. So yes, rising with the sun did make me happy. Because I woke up before the heat, I was able to ride my bike, relax on my front porch, and move around a little before work. This week ended up being the perfect time to experiment with my alarm clock. I am also happy I didn’t completely tie myself to my original plan. If I had stuck with it all the way through the week (or, god forbid, the weekend), I would have missed out on a truly great night.

Maybe one day I’ll be like my parents, unable to sleep in and insanely productive before 7 am. Now that I think of it, raising my sister and I was probably the main reason their brains forced them awake every morning and if I asked my Father today, I’m sure he’d prefer to spend a little more time in bed. I don’t know if waking up early means I’m healthier or more successful, but the happy memories, occasional productivity, escape from the heat, and thunderstorm singalongs definitely put a smile on my face this week.

Sources

10 Benefits of Rising Early, and How to Do It
Zen Habits
15 Reasons to Rise Early – Benefits of Waking Up Early
The Sleep Judge
8 Health Benefits to Being an Early Riser
NeuroTracker
Waking Up Early: Are There Benefits to Being a Morning Person?
Laura Hensley | Global News
What are the Benefits of Waking Up Early?
Sleep Advisor

Week Twenty-Seven: Draw Something

Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once we grow up.
– Pablo Picasso

In my office, among the books, plants, miscellaneous chargers, and paperwork, is a stack of blank canvases, a sketchbook, pencils, a set of brushes, and paint. At one point, years ago, I told myself that I would start painting again. To be clear, at no point would I have called myself an artist. By “again” I mean that I went to an elementary school with a heavy fine arts curriculum and, despite having no clue what I was doing, I invariably had a canvas, sketchbook, pencil, or paintbrush in my hand on a daily basis.

A grade school sketch I was particularly proud of.

When I was in school, art did NOT make me happy. Going to an arts school, in fact, is precisely the reason why I haven’t picked up a paintbrush in fifteen years.

When I was little I loved mucking about with arts and crafts. I finger painted, I glued cotton balls onto brightly coloured pieces of construction paper, and I did strange things with yarn. The second I entered the studio at school, it went from fun and silly to stressful and competitive. Imagine the typical elementary school bully or mean girl. Now imagine them in a “special” school you have to audition to attend, make them dancers, singers, and artists, and give them the self-confidence that only comes from being the best at everything.

Me, as Hermia, in Shakespeare’s *A Midsummer Night’s Dream*

Don’t get me wrong, I loved the school. It gave me a creative outlet, wonderful teachers, and some truly incredible experiences. But it also gave me a brutal inferiority complex. I was strong academically and I was good at drama and music (clarinet, in case you’re wondering). What I was not particularly skilled at was dance and visual arts. In the art school hierarchy, the cool girls were good at dance and art (interestingly, the two things that boys were teased for excelling in). And when I say good, I mean good. In addition to regional arts awards, some accolades collected by just my class include designing the school logo, sculptures displayed in a fine arts museum, admittance to the National Ballet Academy, and representing Canada in an international dance competition. I was surrounded by brilliance.

I graduated with good grades in every subject – even dance and art – but my experience freaked me out so much that I didn’t continue with either subject in high school. With the exception of visiting art galleries and dancing at the occasional wedding, I haven’t done either since.

An early attempt at watercolour: heavy on the water, light on the colour.

So that’s where I was at the beginning of this week; wanting to rediscover a long-dormant love of art, but being more than a little nervous about it. Grade school insecurities aside, I hate being bad at things – especially in front of other people. I’m ashamed to say that this has stopped me from trying a lot of new things. I’m not sure what happened to the outgoing theatre kid who loved having an audience, but my performative “art” these days is pretty much limited to public speaking at work and cooking for small groups of friends.

I wanted to start small so I ripped a few pages out of my sketchbook and I dug out the water colour pencils. I stared at the blank page for a few minutes until I gave up and turned to the Internet for inspiration. I spent a while browsing other people’s art, looking for easy little things that I could imitate. I ended up finding an oil painting that I liked and I adapted it to my new medium. I spent the rest of the afternoon messing around with the pencils and paints; I was having so much fun that I completely lost track of time.

A lot of things have changed since I was in grade school. This week when I was experimenting, I wasn’t sitting in a studio full of people all trying to paint the same thing. The “art” that I created this week wasn’t for a grade, it was for me. And it was fun. It felt so good to be creative in this way again.

There has been a lot written about the transformative power of art and of art therapy. Throughout my life, the influence of art in all its forms has been great and varied. I have beautiful memories of colouring with my Mum and my sister at the kitchen table and I have stressful memories of competition, insecurity, and embarrassment at school. Funny enough, both of those things have come up in actual therapy. Despite mixed emotions, I have wanted to try again for a long time. I have put “paint something” on almost every New Year’s Resolution list, I have looked into taking community art classes, I have purchased supplies, and I have made promises. This week I finally did it. I am happy because I had a wonderful time rediscovering an old hobby. I am Happy because I finally started to tackle my grade school insecurities and just did it.

I can talk big about vanquishing my phantom bullies until I’m blue in the face but for this to really work, I need to put my Monet where my mouth is (I know, I’m the worst). Sharing my terrible little pictures makes me sooo uncomfortable, which I guess is the point. So please don’t judge me! Or do. Whatever! I did this for me!

Week Twenty-Six: Write a Positive Review

Every time you spend money, you are casting a vote for the kind of world you want.
– Anna Lappe

Whenever I try something new that I really like – a city, a restaurant, a boutique shop, a new craft beer – I get an overwhelming urge to introduce it to everyone I know. When I love something I want everyone else to love it as much as I do. This is especially true for the small, quirky, and unique.

When I go somewhere new, I look for these places; the things you can’t find anywhere else that make each town special. When I find them, I feel like I truly know the place where I live; the place where I can recommend a trail walk, bike shop, gastro pub, or mechanic.

Over the years I’ve found that, with very few exceptions, the most wonderful places are small and locally run. The people who own and operate these businesses work hard, love what they do, and make their communities better. They’re also usually the most ethical, sustainable, and socially conscious.

This week, I want to say thank you to some of these places. I want to put my money where my mouth is and spread the word. For whatever reason, I’ve never really been a review writer – positive or otherwise – but when I thought about the small businesses that I interacted with this week, I thought about the positive impact they each had on me. Whether it was quick and friendly service, a delicious meal, a bit of nostalgia, or genuinely lovely human interaction, I was made happier by the experience.

I don’t know if there’s any actual research about the positive correlation between review-writing and happiness, but putting my happy thoughts out into the world (and onto the internet) in a place where they may actually make a difference, really brightened up my day.

So please, accept my most sincere recommendation for the following local businesses:

Dispatch Restaurant

St. Catharines, ON
dispatchrestaurant.com | Instragram: @dispatchresto

This restaurant is fairly new to the scene in St. Catharines, but they’ve already made a huge splash. Not long after they opened, they even made a Air Canada’s list of 10 best restaurants in the country.

I talk about it more in my review, but we started to order from Dispatch shortly after the pandemic hit and we intensified our desire to support local. (I swear, my husband has ordered so much local craft beer that we may as well be shareholders). We came for the sustainably-sourced produce and stayed for the great personalities and even greater food!

Review:

The food is delicious and the people are wonderful – a must try in St. Catharines!
I love food, I love drink, and I love all things local, so I was absolutely delighted when Dispatch came on the scene as an innovative blend of all three. My first proper experience with Dispatch was actually after the pandemic shut down when they prepared takeout meals in an attempt to sustainably use the rest of their pre-pandemic produce (awesome thing #1). My husband and I ordered food for ourselves and then we immediately ordered some for our family because it was SO GOOD (awesome thing #2). At that point, I looked more closely at their business practice and was fascinated to learn that the folks at Dispatch do everything in their power to produce their wonderful food and drink in a completely sustainable way. After this initial phase of take out orders, they closed up for a bit to really consciously develop a pandemic plan that was safe and sustainable for their staff and customers (awesome thing #3). When they opened up again with their online orders, we immediately tried their trail mix and Turkish delight – both incredible and something we’ve now ordered multiple times! The last time we picked up our goodies we had an opportunity to chat with one of the owners and he was so incredibly nice, friendly, and excited about his product (awesome thing #4). He took the time to chat with us and explain their next phase, along with all of the quality and safety considerations. Amazing!
So if you’ve made it to the end of this review, try Dispatch! You definitely won’t regret it 🙂

Kipps Lane Fish and Chips

London, ON
kippslanefish.com | Instragram: @kippslanefish

This little chippy has a big place in my heart. I grew up a few blocks away from this family-run business and I have lovely memories of my Mum picking up fish and chatting with John, longtime owner and founder who ran the shop from 1972 until his death in 2010. For the last decade, this place has kept its spot as a London mainstay in the loving and capable hands of John’s daughter Jacqueline. Not only is the traditionally fried, newspaper-wrapped fish delicious, it also reminds me of my Mum, and that is priceless.

Review:

The BEST fish and chips in London
My relationship with Kipps Lane Fish and Chips goes back about 30 years to when I was a kid walking the few blocks with my Mum to pick up our fish and chat with John and his family. I have many incredible memories not only of the food, but of the people who have made Kipps Lane Fish and Chips the wonderful place that it is. The quality of food and the kindness of the people is why now, even though my family lives on the other end of town and I, myself, have moved 2 hours away, we still get our fish and chips from here. They now have a great and easy-to-use website and if you are looking for a nice English-style treat, I’d highly recommend Kipps Lane Fish and Chips!

A Taste of Britain

London, ON
atasteofbritain.ca | Facebook: @Britishgiftsandgroceries

My Father had a big birthday last year and to celebrate, we planned a two-week trip to Scotland to drink whisky, eat food, and marvel at the sights and sounds of the countryside (bagpipes anyone?). Due to a pandemic-related travel ban, our trip was unfortunately cancelled. To try and make up for it, I planned a Scottish themed afternoon complete with a whisky trail on the back deck and all the goodies you can imagine. To do this, I needed to visit the local UK import shoppe. Not only was the selection huge, but the lovely lady at the counter was incredibly friendly, and Scottish to boot! I let out an actual squeak when she said that she grew up in Fife – my almost identically-spelled namesake. The afternoon was a success and the best part was the look of delight on my Father’s face as I pulled out strange flavoured crisps, shortbread, Scottish cheese, and actual haggis.

Review:

Great selection, lovely staff!
This year I was supposed to travel to Scotland with my Dad but, because of the pandemic, our trip was cancelled. This weekend I decided to bring Scotland to him by doing an at-home whiskey trail with a variety of Scottish snacks. I came to A Taste of Britain and was blown away by the selection of food, drink, and (most importantly), HAGGIS! I’m pretty sure I bought up the whole store and I had a lovely chat with the shopkeeper as she rang through my purchases. If you’re looking for a British experience in London, ON, definitely visit here!

Byron Automotive

London (Byron), ON
byronrepair.com

To make a long and disappointing story short, for some time we have been in need of a new vehicle. While our little blue car was technically road worthy, the shifty transmission (Ha, pun!) made it harder and harder to actually get places. We eventually decided to purchase my stepmother’s car that she had been trying to sell on Kijiji for several months. To do that, we needed the safety check which had, of course, just expired. We drove to Byron Automotive on her recommendation and, to my surprise and delight, they took care of everything we needed in under 10 minutes. Something that could have been disastrous at worst and boring at best was actually a really nice experience! And now we are the proud owner of a car with a working transmission.

Review:

Friendly, professional, and a life-saver!
My family has been taking our vehicles to Byron Automotive for years – even after they left Byron. I recently had to go in and get a safety renewed on my car and the experience was so quick, painless, and friendly! From the moment they pick up the phone to when you pull out of the parking lot, the folks at Byron Automotive are friendly and professional. I had a bit of a time crunch (entirely my fault) and they were so respectful of that and I was done and on my way in what felt like minutes. Definitely give Byron Automotive a try!

Week Twenty-Five: Go for a Walk

There was nowhere to go but everywhere.
– Jack Kerouac

I love walking.

I love walking to a destination, I love walking for no reason, I love walking for the sake of walking, I love walking for exercise, I even love walking when I’m lost.

I have spent the majority of my life as a pedestrian. I got my driver’s license pretty late (G1/Learner’s at 20 and full license at 27). I was 26 when I first had regular access to a vehicle and I didn’t own my first car until I was 28. To get from place to place I felt (and still feel) most comfortable on foot, where decision making can be slower and I can safely stop and look around.

I also walk to explore. I have never been on an “all inclusive”, beach chair/resort vacation (although bottomless beverages sound like fun) and the only time I went on a cruise ship I spent hours doing laps of the deck. When I travel, I walk everywhere. Last year my husband and I went to Europe for two weeks. We rented a car, took planes, road buses, and traveled by train around four countries, and we still walked over 200 km. I feel like I don’t know a city until I have spent hours exploring it by foot; reaching places you could never see by car.

As an adult, I once heard another able-bodied adult say something along the lines of “Ugghh do we have to walk there? I hate walking!” Maybe I’m naive, but that sentiment had never occurred to me. For me, walking is a natural extension of my human form. It’s how I move from one place to the next, physically and mentally. Going for a walk is like reading a good book, eating an incredible meal, or having the perfect glass of wine. It’s the way I reset my brain, calm myself down, or get myself energised. I am immensely grateful for my physical ability to walk so, naturally, hearing this negativity came as a bit of a surprise.

I walk for a lot of reasons and without a doubt, going for a walk always makes me happy. When I broke my foot in my early twenties, the worst part was not the pain, it was my inability to walk long distances. In fact, I was so stubborn and ansty that I delayed the healing process with my far-too-literal interpretation of “walking cast”.

This week I went for a long walk at least once a day. When I got tired of sitting at my desk I went for a walk. When my chronic pain flared up I went for a walk. When I wanted to decompress before bed I went for a walk. When I wanted to feel a little happier, I went for a walk. And it worked.

When I sat down to write this, I thought about all the ways that walking makes me happy and all the reasons I go for a walk. Here’s a short list.

I walk…

When I’m bored
When I’m feeling antsy
Before bed
To cool down
To warm up
When the dog needs to pee
Because it stopped raining
When the weather is nice
When I’m feeling lazy
To explore my surroundings
To get un-lost
To increase my daily step count
To get some fresh air
For some moderate exercise
To get out of an awkward situation
When I’m really mad
When I’m excited
When I don’t want to wait for the bus
When I’m too cheap to pay the bus fare
When it’s too close to drive
When someone tells me I can’t walk that far
To challenge myself
To challenge someone else
To raise money for a cause
Because I can
To people-watch
To feel happy

Enjoy a snapshot of my walking adventures of 2020:

Week Twenty-Four: Write a Journal Entry

Journal writing is a voyage to the interior.
– Christina Baldwin

I wrote my first ever diary entry in my first ever diary on October 22nd, 1999, two days after my ninth birthday. Like most kids, I formally introduced myself to this newly anthropomorphised book of blank pages: “Hi My name is Laura EliZabeth Fyfe”. Until my final entry in 2005, this book with the gold-lined pages, a cat on the cover, and a blue ribbon bookmark was an extension of myself; a third-party confidant, a strange and separate part of me that I somehow removed from my real identity and placed in the pages of this book.

I don’t remember precisely why I kept a diary. I don’t remember who presented me with this book of blank pages on my ninth birthday, and I don’t remember anyone specifically telling me to record my thoughts in it. Maybe I saw it on television or read it in a book. Maybe I liked the idea of having a secret. (Although there is a good chance that my sister has read it in its entirety because I found it in her bedroom).

I told Dear Diary all about my daily routine; I wrote about fighting with my parents or my new little sister, I wrote about my friends, my cat Mog, my classmates, and eventually the boys I had crushes on. My diary was my friend. My diary was my witness. My diary was a record I kept for future Laura, so she would never forget.

Dear Diary, 2004

On a recent visit home I found this first ever diary; this strange half-told, partially coherent account of a child navigating through the world. It’s interesting to see what I thought was important enough to record and what events I lacked the ability to process or articulate in the moment. For instance, I told a long and detailed story about a boy named Kyle who professed his adolescent love for me, but I didn’t write about my Mother’s death until seven months after she died.

Reading it now, I believe I tried to tell the full story from my point of view, beginning from the moment she found the “lump”, to the day Mum and Dad sat us on the couch and tried to explain to us what was about to happen. For two and half pages I carefully documented the six weeks she was sick, from the daily trips to the hospital, to the endless stream of family and friends. My heart broke for my thirteen year-old self when I read the words “I never lost hope” followed immediately by a recounting of her death. Despite this, much of this short diary entry was a fact-based and unemotional chronology. It wasn’t until I read the last line, 16 years later, that I realized that even then, only seven months after it happened, I was already trying to keep myself at arm’s length from the pain. I was trying to protect myself. The last line I would write for over a year was: “This is too hard to write about now”.

Clean Break

Around the same time I was given a second diary. There were some overlapping entries as I briefly tried to remain faithful to both books; however, I soon made a clean break from what I called the “juvenile” account of my life. It was chilling to see two completely different versions of myself side-by-side and to experience, again, the way my sense of self was shattered and rebuilt in the wake of my Mother’s death. Before September 2004, I experimented constantly with my handwriting, I wrote about fighting with my sister, and I got excited about grade-school parties and cute boys. One year later, when I began writing again, my script was almost exclusively small, tightly written cursive. My first entry began with what can only be described as self-loathing, embarrassment, and disdain for my “young” self. On the page, I wondered rhetorically when I would stop feeling “stupid” about my childish writing, and when I would “get over it”, and “stop dwelling on the past”. In that year I became an entirely different person; a person with no love or patience for my younger self. Perhaps I was envious of her; she had a Mother and I did not. I didn’t want to be in pain any more so I became harder on myself until I couldn’t feel it.

And yet, within these twisted teenage words, there was hope and a tiny cry for help. January 18, 2006: “For some reason I have not felt myself at all. I am usually someone who is always happy and positive…it has been over a year since my Mum passed away, and I am only now feeling the hurt and loneliness.”

Now What?

These days I don’t journal privately or write in a diary, although I have managed to hold onto the two unfinished and disjointed “volumes” of my life. Reading through them has been equal parts embarrassing, enlightening, heartbreaking, and hilarious. They say that journaling connects you with yourself, your thoughts, your needs, and your desires in the moment. For me, journaling about journaling has forced me to revisit my past and get to know all the previous versions of myself. It was an unexpectedly liberating experience.

My last recorded entry was one month to the day before I got married in 2017. I’m not sure what compelled me to return to my diary after such a long hiatus. Perhaps I thought that it was important to document this particular milestone. Funny enough, all I wrote in my ten-line entry was how long it had been since my last entry, that I was getting married and to whom, and that I was stressed. That’s it.

This week I revisited my old diary. Unlike many of my other “recent” entries, this time I dispensed with the typical “it’s been a while since my last entry”. I grabbed a pen and wrote what I was thinking. It is an entirely shallow account of journaling (journaling about journaling about journaling?) and I make no attempt whatsoever to talk about current events, personal issues, or even, for that matter, whether or not I’m happy. After many years of nothing more than the occasional awkward hello, my diary has become a complete stranger. Journaling with pen and paper felt strange and forced. Like my first ever entry, my prose is weirdly formal (although I stop short of providing my name and biographical details). Three years after my last attempt at a regular diary, is my first entry of 2020:

Dear Diary,
If someone were to find this little book and attempt to read the mess of cursive inside, what – or who – would they find?
I gather that I was a much more diligent journaler when I was younger, which is fairly interesting since never in my life have I heard more about the power of recording your feelings than in my late twenties.
It also occurs to me that if anyone ever finds this, they might not even be able to read it because even now, at the time of this writing, cursive has not been taught in many years.
Cards on the table: I actually did try to start journaling again earlier this year. I attempted to do a daily entry aesthetically inspired by “Bullet Journals” on the internet, but it came out looking more like a demented Book of Hours…
In truth, my decision to journal again came from a much more embarrassing source. A while back, I was watching “The Crown”, a Netflix series about the British Royal Family. In it, you occasionally get an imagined intimate look at the Queen’s daily diary. In this diary, she notes the day’s events and perhaps her impressions of all things political, social, and personal. She also appears to lay out the following day of Royal engagements and the like.
I know that the show creators largely made up the content of her personal life, but I think that it’s highly likely that she does actually keep a personal diary. And wouldn’t we all love to get out hands on that some day? Assuming it isn’t incinerated upon her death.
So herein lies the embarrassment: “I would give anything for a chance to see inside the life of the Queen of England. I wonder if anyone would be at all interested in the minutia of my own humble experience. Maybe I should write it down – for posterity!”
Walking my way through that thought and coming out the other end into reality was a very humbling experience. Will anyone care about the words in this little book? Absolutely not. Does that matter at all? Why on earth should it? If I’m absorbing anything from this “How to Be Happy” adventure, it’s that what other people think doesn’t matter – or at least doesn’t matter above all else.
Who knows, maybe my future children, if I have them, will find this a hilarious and embarrassing trip into my adolescent mind. Maybe I’ll lose it. Maybe the house will burn down taking these words with it. Who on earth knows.
What journaling about journaling has reminded me of, dear diary, is not to take myself too seriously and to not focus so much on “posterity”. After all, I really don’t get to choose what version of me is remembered by the small few who know me.
I’m just a socially awkward 29 year old woman trying to be a little happier. Who knows, maybe this will help!

Nice to Meet You

As usual, the lesson this week was far from what I expected. I assumed that writing about my “feelings” would somehow bring enlightenment and maybe, if I was lucky, an overall sense of well-being. When it came down to it, I didn’t write at all about my feelings, but it was fun, if a bit silly, to revisit the practice of journaling, although I do think I need to dedicate more time to it to truly reap the rewards. The most valuable part of this week for me was to get to know past Laura and, for the first time in more than a decade, let her and her words off the page. The things I struggled to write about back then, both important and banal, are the things I still struggle with today – although I like to think that my spelling has improved a bit. For whatever reason, it is reassuring to know that I’ve always been a little weird, introspective, self-loathing, critical, and strangely self-aware. I am glad that all the past Lauras are in the past – it’s a lot less complicated back then – but even though it’s embarrassing to read my old thoughts and feelings, I’m pretty glad I wrote them down.

Week Twenty-Three: Sit on a Park Bench

Each of us needs to withdraw from the cares which will not withdraw from us. We need hours of aimless wandering or spates of time sitting on park benches, observing the mysterious world of ants and the canopy of treetops.
– Maya Angelou

When I added this to my list way back at the beginning of this project, I never thought that something so simple – sitting on a park bench – would become so difficult, loaded, and problematic.

At the time of this writing, we live in a world that has radically redefined the idea of “public spaces”; where most of us haven’t seen loved ones for months; where leaving your house without purpose opens you up to the scrutiny of strangers. This world of COVID-19 is a world where playgrounds and other outdoor amenities like picnic tables and park benches are barred by caution tape for our own safety.

That is one of the reasons I didn’t sit on a park bench this week.

Road Warriors

This week something very scary happened. We were sitting at the dinner table when my Father received a phone call from the hospital in the Northern Ontario town where my stepmother had been living for the past several weeks. I sat there frozen, watching my Father at the mercy of the voice on the end of the line, wondering if his life was about to be changed forever. Within twelve hours we were in the car, making the 17 hour drive North.

Travel, stress, and fear took over and it was Wednesday when I finally remembered that there was something I was supposed to be doing: sitting on a park bench.

Our journey took us to a camp on the sparsely populated shores of Lake Shebandowan. As you can imagine, a lake without parks is not a place where one would normally find a park bench. But I’ll be honest, I wasn’t particularly focused on that.

Withdraw from the Cares

The level of stress – both acute and chronic – that my stepmother was experiencing as a result of working full-time during a global pandemic, being a primary caregiver for an ageing parent, and being away from her home and her spouse for months had triggered a seizure. Her brain simply could not cope with what it was being asked to process. Reboot and delete. As far as I know, she still has no memory of that day, although it will likely haunt my Father for the rest of his life.

Both the ordinary and the urgent realities of this pandemic – and of every stressful situation – hit everyone differently, and some negative side-effects are inevitable. It could look like job-loss or redeployment, food insecurity, depression and anxiety, trauma and grief, or death. It is hard to live on the edge of an existential crisis, even for those of us like myself who have experienced none of these things. We may instinctively try to push through it, or tell ourselves to over-achieve, persevere, or get over it, but if we’re not careful our bodies will stop telling us to slow down, they’ll make us.

I spent this week up on Lake Shebandowan, working remotely, waiting for news, offering support, and slowing down. While there were no park benches, per se, I did find some quiet places to sit and think.

This is Not a Park Bench

Sources
45 Things You Can Do to Get Happy No Matter Where You Are
Courtney Johnston | @CourtRJ | ( http://www.rulebreakersclub.com/) on Lifehack.org

Week Twenty-Two: Discover New Music

It’s not the note you play that’s the wrong note – it’s the note you play afterwards that makes it right or wrong.
— Miles Davis

This week will be different.

Fair warning to the reader: this week I am not talking about myself and how I made myself happy. At least not in a way that I’ve approached it up until this moment. Happiness is complicated, and in this case pain, sadness, discomfort, and shame are all necessary to feel first.

Pain, Sadness, Discomfort, and Shame

On Monday May 25, 2020, George Floyd, an African-American man from North Carolina, was murdered by police during an arrest in Minneapolis. Protests in response to his death, police violence against people of colour, and systematic racism in the U.S. have since spread across the globe.

In the weeks that followed, many white people and allies made the decision to temporarily remove their voices from public discourse and instead, to amplify the voices of people of colour. This week, I have done the same.

Refocus

There is an uncomfortable and insidious side-effect of the “self-care” movement; a movement that has provided most of the raw material for this project. Self-care is undeniably important, but without critical reflection it can go from necessary mental health care to a justification for ignoring or minimizing how your actions (or inactions) impact those around you. Certainly put on your own oxygen mask before helping the person next to you. Undoubtedly you cannot pour from an empty cup. But sometimes, if we are able, we need to set aside our own lives for a moment and use our minds and our voices in service of those around us. We need to set aside our privilege. I need to set aside my privilege, and for a moment at least, set aside the concern for my own happiness. That’s what I did this week. I acknowledged my privilege. I acknowledged the very same privilege that gives me the space, time, and wherewithal to focus so intently on my own happiness. I can worry about being happy while others worry about staying alive.

Being uncomfortable is good when reality is uncomfortable. Being unhappy is the correct response to brutality, shame, terror, inequality, and discrimination. But being unhappy isn’t enough. Sit in that discomfort and unhappiness. And then do something about it.

This week I set aside my own words and my own thoughts and used my space, as big or small as it may be, to amplify other voices. The social and political systems of this world are set so that I, a white person, benefit from the art, culture, voices, bodies, and lives of people of colour. This one-sided relationship is no longer acceptable. In the spirit of discovering new music, I will pass the microphone over to the voices of the brilliant, the creative, the sorrowful, the amazing.

Thank you this week to Miles Davis, Redbone, Childish Gambino, Kendrick Lamar, Lizzo, Tanika Charles, and TiKA.

Music from the U.S.

Kind of Blue – Miles Davis (1959)

Miles Davis (1926-1991) is one of the most influential figures in the history of jazz and of 20th-century music as a whole. This album, Kind of Blue, is cited by critics as the greatest jazz record and one of the best albums of all time. It appears on most lists of the best music ever recorded and it is an album that everyone should listen to at least once.

In His Own Words:

“If you understood everything I said, you’d be me.”

“Man, sometimes it takes you a long time to sound like yourself.”

“Don’t play what’s there; play what’s not there.”

“Knowledge is freedom and ignorance is slavery.”

“It’s not about standing still and becoming safe. If anybody wants to keep creating they have to be about change.”

“It’s not the note you play that’s the wrong note – it’s the note you play afterwards that makes it right or wrong.”

Wovoka – Redbone (1973)

Redbone is a rock band formed in Los Angeles in the 1960’s by two Native American* brothers, Pat and Lolly Vegas. Over their history, other members of the group included Tony Bellamy, Pete De Poe, Arturo Perez, Butch Rillera, Aloisio Aguilar, and Thunderhand Joe. “Redbone” is a Cajun term for “mixed-raced person”, which the band adopted to signify their mixed ancestry, including Cherokee, Yaquis, Apaches, and Shoshones. The album name, Wovoka, means “wood cutter” in the Northern Paiute language.

In Their Own Words:

“Many moons in history, when the world was red
Indians drank from the river, cleared and stilled his head
Then the foreigner’s footsteps echoed through the land
Preaching hollow promise, telling lie on lie

Guns will bring you power
Drink will cure your ills
Put your faith in Jesus
Give your soul to me

Take another look or face the liquid truth”
“Liquid Truth”

_{*While this term may not be considered culturally appropriate in certain contexts, I’ve used this description because “Native American” is a term used widely in the U.S. by Indigenous peoples, and by the group on their official website.}

3.15.20 – Childish Gambino (2020)

Childish Gambino (Donald Glover) is an actor, comedian, writer, producer, director, musician, and DJ. Dean Van Nguyen of The Guardian wrote that with this album, titled 3.15.20, Glover “made the first truly outstanding album of the decade, offsetting cultural examinations with moments of sweet levity.”

In His Own Words:

“Everyone is an addict, stumbling concrete
What was the motivation? Constant communication
Everybody wanna get chose like Moses
Came out mother earth smelling like roses
Summon the new edition, made it way too efficient
Made us the guinea pig and did it with no permission”
“Algorithm”

DAMN. – Kendrick Lamar (2017)

Kendrick Lamar is a rapper, songwriter, and record producer. He has been described as one of the most influential artists of his generation and one of the greatest rappers of all time. In 2018, the album DAMN. became the first non-jazz or classical work to earn the Pulitzer Prize for Music and won the Best Rap Album at the Grammy Awards. In 2016, Time named Lamar one of the 100 most influential people in the world.

In His Own Words:

“But you have to understand this man, that we are a cursed people
Deuteronomy 28:28 says
“The Lord shall smite thee with madness, and blindness
And astonishment of heart.”
See family that’s why you feel like
You feel like you got a chip on your shoulder
Until you finally get the memo, you will always feel that way
Why God, why God do I gotta suffer?
Pain in my heart carry burdens full of struggle
Why God, why God do I gotta bleed?
Every stone thrown at you restin’ at my feet
Why God, why God do I gotta suffer?
Earth is no more, why don’t you burn this mufucka?”
“Fear”

Cuz I Love You – Lizzo (2019)

Lizzo (Melissa Viviane Jefferson) is a singer, rapper, songwriter, and flutist. She is praised for her body positivity and self confidence. She has been known to give credit to the internet for helping change the narrative around size by giving visibility to all bodies. Lizzo also speaks openly about her mental health and its impact on her career.

In Her Own Words:

“Black, white, ebony
All sound good to me
Two tone recipe
Got good chemistry
J. F. Kennedy’s
Kiss hood celebrities
Don’t matter to me
‘Cause I like everything”
“Better in Color”

Music from Canada

The Gumption – Tanika Charles (2019)

Tanika Charles is a soul and rhythm and blues singer who was born in Toronto to Trinidadian parents. The album The Gumption marries classic soul with modern production styles and speaks of “vindication, uncertain love, forbidden fruit and the state of the world today”. Charles writes “It’s not about feeling guilty about being up front, not being afraid to address situations that aren’t comfortable to me. I’m comfortable in my skin now in a way I never was before.”

In Her Own Words:

“Starting with me, I’m starting with me
Look in the mirror and what do I see
You are who you are, they say that’s not the thing to be
Work twice as hard for half the opportunity
I look to the heavens would you show me the key
Can’t empathize with those who don’t show it to me
I’m done compromising I need change
At every scale in every way”
“Upside Down”

Carry On – TiKA (2016)

TiKA (TiKA the Creator, TiKA Simone) is a R&B artist, DJ, model, film composer, actor, creator, cultural producer, TV/Online personality, activist, and advocate based out of Toronto. TiKA has spoken openly about her struggles with trauma and depression and uses her art to encourage others who are going through the same. She believes in the power of music and hopes that her music will help her listeners find peace within themselves.

In Her Own Words:

“If they only knew I tucked my feelings deep inside,
If they only knew I had these demons in my mind
And when I get home at night I cry to the moon and stars
That they would understand me,
So I could carry on”
“Carry On”

Sources

18 Canadian R&B Artists You Need to Hear

How to Support Black Canadian Musicians Right Now