The last time slides by

We're trying to figure out how to get rid of our old skis, and that's got me thinking. Sometimes when we do something for the last time, it just slides by. We don't realize till much later.

I loved skiing but can't remember the last time I went, but I do remember a few memorable ski moments. Like when on Mount Baker, I accidentally dropped a pole from the chair lift. Was delighted to see someone ski by and pick it up, assuming he'd return it to the bottom of the chair. Not at all. I heard all about him later. Apparently he had a cabin on the mountain, and collected lost poles for his guests.

Then there was the time on Mount Seymour with an ESL class. I was feeling brave, and watching others ski over a perfect-sized bump, I decided I too could get some air time. A French-Canadian fellow coached me along. "That was good," he encouraged after my first try. "But next time, hopen your eyes!"

When I was nearly six months pregnant, I insisted my husband learn to ski. Once the baby came, I argued, we'll be too busy. It was now or never and we headed for Whistler. We were on the Pony Trail, an easy green run, when I fell. It was a gentle plop into soft snow, with no harm done. But I couldn't get up, because my centre of gravity was changed. My husband had to ski over and haul me to my feet. A good ski lesson for a first day out on the slopes.

We got our daughter on skis early, and she skiied between his legs till she could go on her own. We had several enjoyable family holidays skiing together, till she decided in her teens that she needed to try a snowboard.

On one of the last ski holidays, I remember, when we returned to the condo after a day of skiing, I was exhausted. Just one more run, I cajoled, and we rode up on those last precious runs of the chairlift. Home and dry, we got out of our wet ski clothes, all leaned against the bolster of the bed to watch a little TV. I could hear my husband and daughter talking, but their voices were fading. In seconds, I was sound asleep.

I woke some time later and heard them in the kitchen making dinner. Maybe I'm getting too old for this, I thought, and quickly put the thought away. But looking back now, I wonder if that could have been the last time. Might have been, but I'm not sure. The last time slid by without my noticing.

How clearly I remember buying those Rossignol Meribel skis. New, not second hand. Bliss. I used the money from a small inheritance that an aunt left me. First, a washer and dryer -- the first set I owned. Then the skis, and all the gear to go with them.

The washer and dryer lasted well; they even moved house with us once. But they're long gone. Not surprising when you consider that it's probably thirty years since I bought the machines, and the skis. During my skiing phase, I replaced the boots and bindings, but the skis are still in the garage.

They won't be there much longer. My skiing days are probably over; if not, I'll rent skis. Meanwhile, Salud! to my Rossis. I loved them well.

The time between

On the last day of class, I am dropped off at the station in darkness. Though I board later than usual -- it is after seven -- beyond the lights of the platform, dawn has not yet broken.

Once on the train, I settle in my single seat and position my pack on my knee and against the metal post, so I can prop up my book.

When I get off at Commercial-Broadway, the sky shows that it is morning, but the weather is dingy and grey. I yawn as I descend the escalator and turn toward the bus stop. I am not yet fully alert, still inside my head, still thinking of the book I've been reading.

In order to leave the station, I have to run the gauntlet of arms pressing newspapers on me: Metro! 24 Hours! the reflective-vested hawkers call, in a variety of accents. Some step into my path and push the papers toward my chest, while others thrust them nearly into my face. I dodge them all.

Vancouver Sun? I've had a paid subscription for that one since long before the Internet obliged the publishers to make it available for free. I read it over breakfast an hour ago -- at least the headlines and comics. 

Sliding safely past the last newspaper waver, the one who tries daily to block my path, I wonder: Can't these people sense the meaning of the body language of others? With my head down and my hands in my pockets, do they really think that jumping into my path and waving papers will alter my decision to decline them:?

This is the time between home and work, the time when I am still not fully awake. But as I get geographically closer to my work place, the body gears up. I step into the line for the front door of the Number 99, idly glance into the window of the drug store and think how much larger are the stuffed toys of today compared to the ones we played with when I was a kid.

One 99 B Line has filled and departed. For the moment, there is no bus in sight, but I know it won't be longer than a couple of minutes. I gaze up into the grey sky, and directly above me, two black birds fly over. It's going to be a happy day.

Predictably Irrational by Dan Ariely

Book cover photo, Dan Ariely

I loved Stuart Sutherland's book on human irrationality and have been intrigued by this subject ever since. So when one of my students presented this one to the class, I immediately went out and bought a copy. Author Dan Ariely, Director of eRationality at MIT, writes in a lighthearted style, but his book is packed with facts. And it behooves us to pay attention to our human propensities for making irrational decisions.

For one thing, marketers and other propagandists routinely use this knowledge to exploit us. For another, we all contain both Jekyll and Hyde (originally two opposing sides of one character in a novel by Robert Louis Stevenson, these two human personae were recently featured in a musical at the Kennedy Center.)

The implications of having both a Jekyll and a Hyde side means that as Jekyll, we calmly believe ourselves to be rational and predictable. In states of high arousal, Hyde proves we're not. As the experiments done by Ariely and others suggest, we are quite unable to predict in which direction and how dramatically our inner Mr. Hyde side might deviate from our outer Dr. Jekyll.

A third great value that can be gleaned from this work is learning about the human tendency to put things off till the last possible moment. Based on his experimental results, Ariely makes some useful suggestions for combating procrastination, and reports how real college students have managed to wrestle with it. The clash he describes between business and social norms shows up the backwardness of certain  contemporary business policies as well.

Finally, the author connects the human behaviour demonstrated in his experiments with larger issues of social policy. In view of what this writer and his fellow social scientists have discovered, many routinely used policies make little or no sense.

A fascinating read, Ariely's book is playful but informative. The author's willingness to speculate on possible ways of doing many things differently is another added value. As well as being basic reading for consumers, this is a must-read for students, any anyone running a business or working for a government or charity. In other words, anyone at all who needs to know more about human behaviour should read it.

Once again raising a glass to a departed colleague

Sunday I attended the memorial celebration of my former colleague Miriam Bennett. Then the Divisional Chair, and later a colleague in College Preparatory English, Miriam hired me to work at the college on a snowy December day, more years ago than I care to count. We worked together for many years afterwards, and though we did not become close friends, we enjoyed a cordial collegial relationship.

Miriam retired about ten years ago, and around the same time, was found by her son, born while she was very young and put up for adoption in the U.S. Mark spoke at the event, and his words were inspiring and heartwarming. After all those years of mother and son each imagining what the other was like, they met and bonded and found themselves in many ways to be "like two peas in a pod." Thus Miriam enjoyed the life of a mother and grandmother, in spite of the early trauma of giving up her child.

Often when people pass away, one finds out a great deal more about their accomplishments, and for me this was the case with Miriam. I was surprised to learn that she had lived in Amsterdam, Bucharest, and Monte Carlo, as well as Brussels, Montreal, and Vancouver. And I was most impressed to discover that she spoke eight languages and visited eighty countries. I was also touched by the lovely poems her husband Robert wrote about her in 2005 and 2006, after many years of marriage.

My colleague had a lot of interests, and she knew a lot of people. Yesterday, the Vancouver Symphony Orchestra School of Music was packed as mourners gathered to raise a glass in her memory. Miriam died in October, and this was a celebration of her life. There were musical numbers from Ain't Misbehavin' and Jacques Brel is Alive and Well, interspersed with reminiscences from a couple of close family members. Bill Millerd of the Arts Club Theatre also described his first meeting with Miriam, who was later on the board of the theatre. The formal program ended with a rendition of Brel's If we Only Have Love, with Erin Palm singing, and Steven Greenfeild on the piano.

Miriam Bennett was an enthusiastic and accomplished woman who contributed much to education and the arts, and enjoyed life to the full. She was a lovely soul and will be missed by many, most especially by those who gathered yesterday to pay their respects to her memory -- a life well-lived.

Shades of Milk and Honey by Mary Robinette Kowal

Cover photo: Mary Robinette Kowal

After meeting the author at the SIWC, I took this book out of the library and began to read it. It begins in Jane Austen fashion, as a novel of manners, and we soon meet the protagonist and her sister. Jane is plain, though artistic, and the golden-haired Melody, ten years younger, is a beautiful flirt.

At first I was put off by the magic realist element. Kowal has invented a new art form for ladies and gentlemen of quality and means. Though she lacks suitors, Jane is a skilled practitioner of this art. She pulls glamour from the ether, folds, braids and manipulates it. In this way, she can create magical illusions that give an extra dimension of decor to her surroundings and thrill onlookers.

Mr. Dunkirk is the charming neighbour whom Jane admires, even though she thinks he has eyes only for Melody. Meanwhile, she befriends his sister Bess, who suffers dark moods. Having begun as a light romantic fantasy, the tale begins to darken. When first Bess and then Mr. Dunkirk confide their explosive secrets in Jane, she finds herself in a cruel dilemma.

Meanwhile, another talented glamuralist, Mr. Vincent, is exploited by Jane and Melody's snobbish neighbours to the point of exhaustion; in the middle of a glamour demonstration, he collapses from exhaustion and falls ill. Jane must think fast, but even her quick decisive action is not guaranteed to save his life.

There is also trouble between the sisters -- Melody refuses to admit to her older and more level-headed sister that she has a secret beau, and goes off in the night to meet him in the garden maze. Fearful for her sister's reputation and well-being, Jane follows, and what she learns there propels her into an immediate and drastic action that she couldn't find more distasteful.

The darker side of the society stands revealed. Middle aged women with grown children have nothing to do, and nothing to discuss but their ailments. A dishonourable man is willing to marry any woman with money to exploit her wealth. A dark secret is exposed: an honourable man has defended the woman in his care and his family's honour, but by an act of vengeful violence. More violence threatens as the tension builds.

Filled with dramatic action, the final compelling section of the book exposes the complete vulnerability of the women in this society. At the same time, it shows how our protagonist works her way through the maze of constricting social mores that govern her, and find the courage to choose happiness where she knows she can, in spite of the unconventional nature of her decision.

I almost put this book aside after a few pages, thinking it was just a light romance. Luckily, I decided to keep reading and found it was much more. Kowal pulls the reader in with the sure touch of a puppeteer (she is one, as well as being a writer).

With her imitation of Jane Austen's style, she scarcely puts a foot wrong. To top off the pleasure of reading, there are moments of delightful Austenesque comedy, such as the portrayal of Jane's father when she gets engaged. With his thumbs tucked in his waistcoat, the author tells us, he "looked far too innocent for his own good."

The book was published in 2010 by Tor. Its author is a member of Science Fiction and Fantasy writers of America, and at the time of publication was on the board of directors of that organization.

The Three Marriages by David Whyte

Photo from Institute of Noetic Sciences

As Doris Lessing said, the right book has a way of  "insinuating itself into your hands" at the right moment.

That happened for me with The Three Marriages, by David Whyte. I had bought the book several months ago, and it was in plain view, lying around with a dozen other books in various piles, waiting to be read.

After reading Whyte's earlier book, The Heart Aroused, I still had a clear memory of the unique intuitions of this author, known in some circles as the poet of the workplace. I was certain I would enjoy this recent opus too, with its intriguing title.

And indeed, as I read through his narrative about the marriage to one's partner, one's work, and oneself, something deep inside clicked into place. I was profoundly reassured by Whyte's insights into the mysterious aspects of life. Reading his work renewed my faith.

To illustrate the way the marriages are intertwined, the author talks about the lives of three intriguing individuals. All had to challenge the great difficulties life presented and yet all managed to work out their commitment to the three marriages.

Robert Louis Stevenson, Jane Austen and Pema Chodron seem to be vastly different characters; yet the lives of all three are suitable examples of how we face our sorrows and still manage the life- affirming commitment to our partners, our true work, and ourselves.

The book was also full of fascinating anecdotes from Whyte's own life, and sprinkled with examples of his wonderful poetry. I noticed with pleasure that it was dedicated to the late John O'Donohue, an author for whom I hold the greatest admiration.

Winter morning sky

Photo: VCC in early morning

Now the leaves have finally fallen from the trees along Broadway.

The hues of this morning sky proclaim the arrival of winter.