Author: Kirsten Lavine

One afternoon, while I was working at an historic house museum, a group of six friends came in for a guided tour, which is the only way of seeing the house. The maximum tour size is fifteen, with a preference for groups of six or more to pre-book. This particular tour was only half full and could accommodate these six, which I was happy to do, but a senior staff member stepped in and insisted they would have to split up into two groups, with half going on a tour an hour later. After much kerfuffle, they were eventually all allowed to join the departing tour.

I later posited to the site manager that surely the primary goal of the museum was to provide our visitors with a positive experience, which we could most successfully achieve by accommodating them to the best of our ability, within reason. She agreed and promised to look into the matter.

That evening, by coincidence, I experienced a similar ‘barring of entry’ at a free community clothes swap, having neglected to pre-register for a specific entry time slot. I’ve been going to these swaps regularly, and timed entry was only ever occasionally requested but had seemingly now become a hard rule. I was asked to wait, but even after half an hour of watching the pre-registered flutter in, the gatekeeper still refused to let me enter, though there was clearly plenty of space. She was completely unsympathetic and I left, disappointed, with my big bag of clothes in tow.

It seems that amidst our claims to be a freer and more inclusive society, we’re becoming more and more bound by rules. Rules are a set of logical guidelines to follow, reflecting a space or institution’s values, principles and practical considerations. Such rules are meant to provide a safe and equitable access, though many rules often seem to exist more for litigious or even arbitrary reasons.

While rules clearly have a legitimate function, they should not be inflexible, and there should be scope, within reason, to adapt them to meet individual, real-life circumstances. The danger is that if we become so wedded to the rules, our kneejerk reaction is to defer to them dispassionately, rather than to consider if there is a way to exercise compassion and help find a more favourable solution.

Last weekend, for instance, I asked a ‘water refilling station’ booth at a festival if they would watch my bike for a minute (there being nowhere to park it) while I ran to the washroom and they said no, they were not authorized to do so. Fortunately, the adjacent booth said, ‘sure, no problem.’ What a difference it makes when we bend official rules in favour of helping someone in need and to provide a better outcome.

Even with our best efforts to ‘follow the rules’, we are all imperfect and make mistakes, and I think, particularly as service providers, we should all endeavor to try and help members of the public with their individual needs as best as possible. A desire to help and to provide a positive solution should truly be the number one rule governing our actions.

As I write this, I am immersed in the clamor and noise of construction across the street, preparing to build yet another apartment block no one seems to want, but which invariably keep popping up all across the city. ‘Condo cancer’, as I’ve long called it, spreading without warning everywhere you look. It feels as though soon this city will have little else other than these towering structures blocking out the sky.

Crossing the street the other way brings me to a busy shopping plaza, with pedestrians darting between the cars which narrowly avoid hitting one another in the cramped parking lot. At the end of the plaza, I catch an often-packed bus to connect with an equally packed subway train.

Everywhere I turn there seems to be increased activity, people, traffic, construction and noise, all of which are becoming harder for me to bear, especially as I get older. I do seek out the panacea of nature regularly, but even then, I’m often met with noise from traffic, building or the ubiquitous leaf blowers. Large sections of two parks I go to have been under construction for months and remain inaccessible.

It feels like everywhere is getting filled up, taking away the space. We all need space to breathe – as much as we need air, because without it, we cannot achieve a sense of perspective on our place in the world and what truly matters.

One of the things I love about landscape painting is when an artist depicts figures in the foreground, dwarfed by towering mountains or the endless swell of the sea. Recognizing that we are tiny creatures in this universe, we can begin to feel our vulnerabilities and the precariousness of our existence.

In cities, we skew this perspective by filling up all the space, thereby inflating our own sense of prominence and place. And by filling up our outer space, we’re also cluttering up our inner space, so we literally have no room to grow or to reflect on where we’ve been and where we’re going next. Our phone addictions compound this, beaming out imaging and messages that permeate our souls. We need to put down our phones and look out in the distance, but we need to be able to see into the distance in the first place.

Space, like time, is another disappearing commodity for many people, as it is, most pressingly, for wildlife. Humans need homes but animals do too, and this planet belongs to them as much as it does to us. I wish with all my heart that we would stop building and start re-wilding, so we can truly experience the wonder of living on this earth and to be able to find some peace.

I am sitting in a silence that has enveloped the space since my mother’s recent death.

Sometimes it is too silent, our home having gone from a hive of activity, of caregivers bustling about, to my now being completely alone, immersed in an unending loop of reflection over her final days and whether things could have gone any differently.

 I am blessed that my mother’s passing was peaceful and anchored in support and loving care. I was with her until the very end, listening to the laboured rasping, as her body shut down, the final quiet intakes of breath, the movement into a complete stillness and immobility. Witnessing the finality of death, the incontrovertible expression of the fragility of life.

Now I am engulfed in the silence of her absence, the imposed solitude and overwhelming introspection about her life and our time spent together. What I need most is for the people in my world to hold this silence with me, to dwell in the sacred space as I come to terms with the ending of her life and the resulting transformation of my own. I’ve also been immeasurably tired, depleted and disoriented, while immersed in the endless tasks of disassembling a person’s existence.

Immediately following my mom’s death, I received many messages of condolence and support, charitable donations and gifts, all of which I’ve genuinely appreciated. But what I’ve needed even more over the past few weeks is the gift of people’s time, of being with me as I navigate this new and uncertain reality.

It’s a very difficult road to traverse alone and no one wants to feel that they’ve been abandoned or forgotten at such a sad time of their lives. Companionship, however, is not an easy thing to ask for, and as grieving is an ongoing process, I will always be grateful for those who are able to listen to my uncertainties with empathy and compassion.

It’s been a further reminder to me that we should all endeavor to check in with each other more, especially at hard times, but at other times too. Life is difficult enough without feeling isolated and alone. We can really make a difference by reaching out and giving of our time and our humanity, with acts that will always be appreciated and remembered.

Experiencing the death of someone you’ve loved is a journey that takes time, patience and healing. Paradoxically though, the loss of my remaining parent signifies to me how limited my own time is here on earth. I have been filled with immense gratitude for all the gifts my mother has given me, while also feeling now, more than ever, the precious and precarious gift of life itself.

While Valentine’s Day has come and gone, I wanted to discuss the pursuit, not so much of someone else’s heart, but the importance of following your own.

Like many people, I regularly struggle feeling conflicted between my desires and my obligations, of fulfilling my own needs versus meeting my responsibilities to others. The sensible ‘must dos’ often win out over the deeper yearnings of fulfillment and connection.

The other day, for example, I needed to run some errands for my elderly mother, while I desperately wanted to go to the riverside park in the opposite direction. I decided that, despite the hassle of all the extra transit time, each were equally important and so I did both. It was tiring and  I didn’t see anything particularly special in the snow-encased park, but the saliant point is that I overrode my mind telling me how impractical this was and made time to honour my inner needs as being important as anything else going on in my life.

Following your heart can feel scary, as it is often times involves going against logic and the goal-oriented behaviour we are so regularly conditioned to follow. But it’s always worth trying, listening to that small voice inside of you, even if the outcomes are not what you expected or even wanted, because the more you get used to trusting your intuition and exercising the muscle of listening to your heart,  the better it will lead you to places in life that are resonating and uplifting.

Conversely, the times I’ve not acted on my intuition or followed the longings of my heart, the regret has always eaten me up. Over time, if we suppress our deepest desires and needs long enough, we may become chronically depressed and even physically ill.

The greatest gift we have is the ability to live our lives with health, dignity and the freedom to make good choices. And honouring and fulfilling who you truly are as a unique individual is the greatest gift you can give yourself – not just for Valentine’s Day but every day – and the clearest pathway to living a life imbued with integrity and inner peace.

I was hoping to start the year off with an uplifting story, but just before New Years, I got swindled. I booked a ‘charming apartment away’ for a few days after Christmas on Booking.com, at a price which seemed too good to be true, and clearly was. A couple of days before I was due to depart, the accommodation informed me that unfortunately, the last guest created a plumbing problem that couldn’t be fixed in time for my visit. As soon as I cancelled my booking, the owners re-listed my dates at double the price.

In the midst of scrambling to find a new place to stay, I also reported the property that was clearly committing fraud. To their credit, Booking.com were exemplary in their response. They assured me they would investigate the matter and offered me a few options by way of compensation, one of which was to reimburse me for any difference in price of a new booking, charging the excess to the ‘charming apartment away’ as a relocation fee. So in effect, I was able to upgrade, at no extra cost. 

Since that experience, I’ve had a few more dubious incidents that I’ve had to report and thankfully, my concerns have been met favourably by companies striving to keep their services reputable and above board. We live in an age with such a lack of accountability, especially through online platforms, where it’s easier to conceal truths and lead people astray. You can take such companies to task by leaving reviews, expositing any wrongdoing, but making contact with the business or site directly, where possible, is equally as important.

Often folks will just write off this kind of bad experience, but I would encourage people to reach out where they can because our increasing passivity is making us less vigilant – or able – to act in a myriad of situations that require some kind of response.

 I sat on a packed bus the other night that had stopped for a long while – without any explanation, and not a single passenger inquired as to why we were stuck there – except me, of course, and I then relayed the situation to everyone on board. I worry more and more about how inert we are becoming as individuals and as a society, and how much provocation we need at times to be stirred into action.

Of course, we have a greater incentive to act regarding a personal transgression, especially if there is some kind of compensation or reward for doing so. But surely, the greater reward should be acting in the name of decency, trying to improve a situation, not only for ourselves but for one another.

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Recently, I realized somewhat belatedly that my condo neighbour hadn’t been paying over the past year for the parking space that he rents from us. I started to imagine all kinds of negative scenarios about why this would be, along the lines of his taking advantage of our not noticing. But I decided to try and keep an open mind, and when I approached him about it, it turned out he’d had so much going on that he’d simply forgotten. He was very apologetic and contrite and paid the full amount promptly. We moved on to other topics and positive relations were restored.

I think there’s much to be said for giving someone the benefit of the doubt, as well as initiating direct and clear communication, rather than making up all kinds of assumptions about what might be going on. We all seem to be so quick to judge one another these days, sometimes on the basis of images we’ve seen online or other kinds of unsubstantiated evidence.

Without doubt, the ability to communicate technologically in such a myriad of ways has countless advantages and benefits, but the downside of doing so with such regularity is that we’re rapidly losing our ability to communicate meaningfully face-to-face, and even less so with patience, kindness or compassion.

Our online activities have primed us towards transactional interactions delivered swiftly, and this level of expectation often migrates to face-to-face interactions, forgetting that people don’t operate like machines and that we need to allow for human idiosyncrasies and error. Individuals might also act erratically due to health issues or personal circumstances.  I’m not saying all manner of behaviour is excusable, but to try and approach a situation accounting for human variables.

 We’re also losing the capacity to just hang out and enjoy each other’s company, to respond sensitively to the physical cues of an environment and one another, and to allow for silence to be present without rushing in to fill the space.

One of the better things about the holiday season is that people tend to reach out more to one another in various thoughtful, heartfelt ways, not only family and friends, but also displaying more of an openness and generosity to strangers and those in need.

We should always strive for clarity, kindness and respect in our communication, to try and see the other person’s point of view and to approach one another with empathy, rather than condemnation. This time of year in particular encourages us to make more of an effort to be nicer and more compassionate with one another.

But remember that communicating – with kindness – is for life, not just for Christmas. 🎁

I was in Montreal for a few days last month, to re-energize and to enjoy the resplendent fall colours. On my first evening, quite suddenly, I started getting flashes out of the corner of my left eye, which, over the coming hours, morphed into a cascade of black dots and thick lines obscuring my vision. I tried not to panic and hoped I could sleep it off and it would all magically disappear by the morning. Of course, it did not. At 8am, while battling intrusive floaters, I fashioned an eye patch out of a hairband and ventured out to seek medical attention.

Of course, being in another city – and a French speaking one at that, I had no idea where to go. Fortunately, a kind local pharmacist directed me to a nearby hospital. I spent the whole of the morning and early afternoon in Emergency and at a busy ophthalmologist’s office, trying to communicate in ‘Franglais’ and to remain calm.

Though the situation was very scary and upsetting, apparently, the retinal hemorrhaging that was diagnosed was not that unusual (for my age) and there was little that could be done while I waited for the intense floaters to gradually dissipate in the coming months. I muddled through the remaining days of my trip with eyepatch and sunglasses in place and tried to enjoy myself as much as possible, gaining some relief from the evening’s darkness.

It was several weeks before I experienced any sign of improvement and the ability to use both eyes (though my vision is still somewhat impaired as I write this). During my recovery, spent largely on the sofa – I learned a number of valuable things.

First of all, the importance of allowing the body the time and space it needs to heal. I succumbed to the fatigue and headaches and gave up so many of my regular activities, like pickleball, piano and reading. It was depressing and hard but I had to give my eye the best chance of recovering.

When I did venture out, especially on public transit, I discovered just how challenging it is to navigate around the city with one eye and how little people are aware of one another. I could really empathize with the issues people with disabilities face on a regular basis, not just in physical barriers but in other people’s lack of awareness. It was a stark reminder about being more sensitive to one another’s’ needs.

I’ve also been in awe of the incredible medical innovations we have and how I just expect more and more these days that whatever condition I have, there will be something to ‘fix it’.

Mostly, of course, I’ve appreciated the incredible privilege of being able to see and how grateful I am for a faculty that allows me to engage with the world with discernment and joy. The first time I could safely venture out again on my bike into nature and properly see the birds was an incredible moment of reconnection and bliss.

 It so often takes losing something and regaining it to appreciate it in its entirety, and the experience has literally opened my eyes to the gift of sight as one I will no longer ever take for granted.

Some weeks ago, I was thinking about what to write this month and a few hours later, my wallet was stolen. Of course, there is nothing in the world that would have induced me to wish this incident upon myself, but since it did occur, it has given me a lot to process and reflect upon.

The evening began normally enough. I popped into a supermarket to buy some granola bars, put my wallet back into its usual backpack compartment and zipped it up – though possibly not fully – and got on my bike and crossed the street to the library to attend a lecture. It was only after the talk when I went to borrow a book, that I discovered my wallet was missing. I emptied out my bag – twice – and searched the library and street on my way back to the supermarket, expecting that someone would have handed it in.

This was a decent neighbourhood and I like to believe that people are generally honest, as has mostly been my experience, even in this notorious city, but there was no sign of it anywhere. The wallet, which was special to me, as it had been given to me by my parents when I was a teenager, contained about $30 in cash, my debit card, and other cards like my library and transit card, though nothing with my name on it, other than some Measure of Light business cards.

I became increasingly frantic – it was now getting dark and without any money, I was wondering how I was going to get home  – a distance of over 7 miles. On my second trip back to the supermarket to make further inquiries,  I ran into the speaker and his wife, who had already helped me search at the library. On hearing that I still hadn’t found the wallet, the speaker, without hesitation, handed over $20 to help me get home, asking me only to pay it forward. I was incredibly moved by his kindness and generosity and promised to do so.

A clerk gave me change and when I was counting it out at the subway kiosk, having explained my situation to the transit staff, they waived my fare. Subsequent calls to the bank and other places to replace my cards were met with people who were equally helpful and kind.

Even after weeks of following up, I never did recover my beloved wallet (nor have found an adequate replacement) and have had to move on. There are many ways I could choose to reflect on this incident and I’ve gone through a range of emotions, from being upset about my wallet being stolen and how underserving I was of this happening, to anger and disgust over people who cruelly take things that clearly belong to someone else. In the end, I’ve decided to focus on the people who so readily offered help, especially the speaker handing me money to get home. Their kindness is what has stayed with me most and what I choose to carry with me going forward.

We can all frame our narratives and decide to take from them what we wish. Of course, I desperately wish this incident had not occurred, and the way in which it has contributed to my changing views of this city. But I’d rather focus my energy on the lessons I can learn from it, such as being more mindful and vigilant, but most importantly, the real difference that reaching out and being kind can make to other people who are in need of help.

I’ve started playing pickleball regularly over the past year, as it’s a fairly accessible and fun physical activity. If you haven’t heard of pickleball by now, you soon will, as the tennis/badminton combo is the fastest growing sport in North America.

While pickleball can be played by all ages, it tends to draw in many from the older, retired crowd, especially ex-tennis players seeking a sport a bit kinder on the joints. Not that pickleball is much gentler, as I discovered, as it can be pretty fast paced and requires quick reaction times. Fortunately, as the ball is plastic, getting hit with it is not so severe, but the need to literally keep your eye on the ball is an excellent opportunity for me to remain present in the moment.

I also enjoy the social interaction, but what surprised me most – other than the speed of the sport – is how fractious situations can get between players. I suppose individuals bring their personalities to the game, as they would anywhere, but I’ve been amazed, at one recreation centre in particular, at the regular squabbling over whose turn it is to play, as well as bickering over points and scores. Mercifully, this is not always the case and many times, operations run smoothly.

For me, the most enjoyable scenario on the court are players who engage verbally during the game and are positive and encouraging about shots.  While some are, others are more resolutely silent or not particularly friendly, which is a shame. But the ones I have the most trouble with are the really competitive people who only play to win.

Obviously, a certain level of competition is healthy, but for me, as an intermediate player still working on my shots, those who whack the ball so hard and fast there’s no chance of me returning it, go too far and spoil the game. I’m more impressed with strategically placed shots than smashed ones – which often backfire anyway – and I struggle with people who show very little consideration for those they’re playing against.

The most admirable individuals for me are advanced players that adapt their game to the level of those they’re playing with, giving learners a chance and the space to improve. There’s a real graciousness in such sportsmanship, which doesn’t mean you have to surrender your win – but at least when you do win, you’re bringing everyone along with you. This kind of respect and generosity in the midst of a fast-paced game is commendable and shows that you can apply this kind of humanity and sensitivity to any aspect of your life – both on and off the court.

I’m so fortunate to be back in England for the summer in my peaceful, idyllic Cotswold haven. One morning, I cycled to the next town and decided on the way back to divert through the side streets. Naturally, I got terribly lost, but in the process, I stumbled on a park with some truly amazing wooden sculptures. When I got back to my town, I passed by the bridge over the little river and saw, to my delight, an egret, followed by the rare flash of an iridescent kingfisher. I was speechless and my heart was full.

I’ve often spoken about how being open to experiences can lead you to magical encounters like this one, and for me, I continually crave these opportunities to feed and uplift my soul. Most mornings, I go for a walk around the neighbourhood, taking in the bridge over the river, always hoping to see something special. Sometimes I do and often I don’t.

One morning, I looked for an egret over the bridge and didn’t see one, though I strongly felt his presence. I walked along the little river path and was excited when I spotted something white – though it turned out to be discarded paper. A couple of seconds later, boom – the egret flew up from where he had been hidden in the bank.  I was rewarded for my yearning, perseverance and for tuning into my environment.

I’m always seeking out wildlife encounters, not just because I love animals, but also for how they immediately bring me into the presence of the eternal, transporting me from my ordinary world into a realm of wonder beyond my immediate understanding.  I think in some way, we all hunger for a connection with something greater and everlasting, which we try to maintain through our relationships, work, creativity, faith and our interactions in the community or wider world.

Amidst our struggles with change and impermanence, we are constantly searching throughout our lives for some kind of consistency or certainty beyond our ephemeral existence. We try to ground ourselves by forming a bridge between our ever-evolving world and the eternal. Sometimes this connection is stronger than at other times, and when we achieve it, there is a true feeling of communion and well-being. It is our looking that makes us human and our finding that makes us divine.