s a r a h c a s m

Tomorrow is Father’s Day.  In honour of that, I am going to give you a rare glimpse of Mr. T (shh – don’t tell him, k?).

Mr. T is an amazing daddy.  He is one of the most engaged dads I have ever known and is completely smitten with Q.  He is affectionate, playful, silly, attentive, protective, and involved.  Q adores him.  All day I hear “Where daddy?” “Daddy home, yet?” “What’s that noise? Is that daddy’s car?”  And, when it finally is, Q loses it and screams with delight.  It never gets old.

They have a special bond that warms my heart.

For months, I have been thinking about how reciprocity fits into online communities and living online.  Recently, I’ve had a number of discussions on blogs and Twitter about what really boils down to the pressure of reciprocity.  (Are my anthropology roots showing?)

In the context of anthropology, there are a few types of reciprocity.  In my opinion, the one that best suits online interactions is called balanced reciprocity.

Balanced or Symmetrical reciprocity occurs when someone gives to someone else, expecting a fair and tangible return at some undefined future date. It is a very informal system of exchange. The expectation that the giver will be repaid is based on trust and social consequences

(I got this definition from wikipedia, but it is near identical to everything I found in my old textbooks – and easier to cite).

What is interesting about that definition is that it can apply to blog comments, Facebook friends requests, Twitter mentions, blogrolls, Twitter follows, Twitter listings, blog subscriptions, even emails.  The interesting thing about it is that oftentimes, specifically with Twitter, the giver doesn’t know the receiver and may have never even interacted with that person.

Expectation is a powerful thing and the burden of obligation weighs heavy on our fingertips.  It is a lot of pressure to keep up – to reciprocate.

I don’t believe that it is necessary to reciprocate everything.  We need to cut ourselves some slack, be selective, and allow ourselves to have a balanced experience instead of getting caught up in balancing our experiences with others’.

It is important to me to read blog posts that speak to me and comment when I have something to say.  I don’t like to leave empty comments any more than I like to get them. That said, I do feel the need to support blogs I read and bloggers I like.

As for Twitter, there is no need to only follow people who follow back.  In fact, that is a good way to miss out on a lot of great information, inspiration, and perspective.   If I find value in someone’s tweets who doesn’t find value in mine, that is ok; everyone is on Twitter for different reasons.  It would be inefficient to follow everyone who follows me and I think it is unreasonable to expect everyone I follow to follow me back.

Reciprocity is vital to online communities and networking.  Undoubtedly.  However, reciprocating everything is inefficient, time-consuming, and unnecessary.  Attaching too many strings to our online experience diminishes it.  Online, our most valuable gifts are words; they are the currency.  Let’s give and receive them freely. 

June 12 is Loving Day in the United States.  It celebrates the anniversary of the day that the US Supreme Court ruled that banning interracial* marriage was unconstitutional.  This year marked the 43rd anniversary.  That means that less than a decade before I was born, marriages were illegal between black people and white people in the US.

Until 2 days ago, I had no idea that this day existed or that Mildred and Richard Loving fought for their love and life together.  I learned about Loving Day on Twitter and it doesn’t really surprise me that I had been unaware of it.  One obvious reason is that I am Canadian and US laws and Supreme Court rulings don’t apply.

After a quick internet scan, I was unable to find any information about similar laws that existed in Canada.  That is not to say they didn’t exist, though.  The Indian Act, for example, laid out specific implications for First Nations people (specifically women) who married anyone without status.

Part 2/3 Part 3/3

Even as a Canadian, I deeply appreciate what this couple went through, fought for, and sacrificed for their right to be together.  Couples like them have paved the way for my family – for my relationship with Mr. T.

I am very glad to have learned of this story and to share it with you.

*I am not a fan of this word for a number of reasons but am using it for lack of a suitable alternative

This post was inspired by this post by Rebecca at Drama for Mama.  I learned a lot about Rebecca and I hope to give you a little insight into who I am.  Here are little snippets of me.

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A cool breeze on a summer’s night.  Worn-in sneakers.  A faded hoodie.  Rolling waves.  Chunky jewellery.  Silver.  Weeds and wildflowers.  Photos.  Clean lines.  A good book.  Lattes.  Countryside drives.  Good beats.  Dance battles.  Swings.  Contrast.  Thunder and heavy rain.  Bright colours.  Denim.  Lyrics.  City vibes.  Stick-shifts.  Afternoon naps.  Moonlight.

This is me.

What words describe you?

Let me tell you a little something about myself.

I suffer from ichthyophobia.

You guessed it… a fear of fish (if you really did guess that, wow!)

So, yes; I am afraid of fish.  Big fish.  Little fish (yes, minnows).  Good fish.  Bad fish.

All fish.

Feel free to laugh.  Really.  It’s pretty irrational.  It’s real, though.  It evokes a visceral reaction.  To be honest, my heart races just thinking about them.

In 1990, my family took a trip to Australia (awesome!), specifically the east coast.  While we were there, we visited the Great Barrier Reef.  I was 13.  Fear of fish firmly established.  We got on a boat and went out to a pontoon in the middle of the ocean, which was really cool ’cause I loooove boats.  Part of the deal was that we “got” to go snorkeling over the reef and see all the colourful fish.  Wonderful.  I was ecstatic (not in the least).

I can’t even swim in a lake if a see a minnow.  I am not exaggerating.  So, here I was poised to face my fear. At 13.  My parents urged me, saying that if I didn’t snorkel at the reef, I might regret it.  Fair enough.  If you’re gonna face the fish, where better than the Great Barrier Reef?  Right?  Wrong.

In order to get in the water, we had to step in little cage-like things that were immersed in the water.  Little cages.  Perfect for catching fish.  Awesome.  I waited until there was not a single fish in the cage-thing as the guide-dude grew increasingly impatient.  I am sure he was wondering what I planned on doing in the open water.  So was I.

My dad swam with me the short distance to the reef. I put my face in and FREAKED out! Not going to happen. Not on his life. Not on mine.  No way.  Not wanting to ruin his opportunity (I was so giving, even then), I offered to wait on a raft where people sat to take breaks from swimming.

It was fine – I was out of the water and soaking in the sun in the middle of the vastness of ocean.  Until.  Until, three huge men (read: average-size teenagers) speaking a language I didn’t understand jumped on the raft, upturned it, and CATAPULTED me into the water.  CATAPULTED.  As expected, I freaked right out.  They tried to help me. I didn’t understand them.  They tried to put me back on the raft-thing, but it was upside-down and full of barnacles and slime.  Everything intensified and I was a lost cause, floundering in the sea (luckily, I can hold my own in water, so that wasn’t an issue).

My dad rescued me pretty quickly and we swam back to the pontoon.  He swam over the reef.  I swam over the endless abyss of nothingness that is the deep sea.  Yes.  I was less afraid of that than fish.

I dried off, got dressed and watched the rest from the safety of the underwater observation window.

So, the moral of this story is… ichthyophobia, though irrational, is real.  Fish in the grocery store.  Fish in tanks.  Dead fish.  Live fish.  Any fish.  Fear of fish.

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This post is dedicated to the fish that Mr. T convinced me would be nice for Q to have.  Almost a year later, they have all passed.  I hope they find peace in their rest because I sure do.

What is real? What is illusion?

The other day, I was having a conversation with friend about dreams.  My dreams are usually very vivid and I mentioned that my dreams from the previous night had felt so real that all day I kept confusing what was real with what I had dreamed.

My friend said that it is all a dream and I countered that maybe, it’s all real…

I’m not sure what the answer is and, honestly, I don’t need to know.  It does makes me wonder, though.  What really exists and how do we know if/when something does?  Does anything really exist?

I am of the mind that everything is an illusion.  That what we perceive is of our own creation.  That our brains register what fits within the realm of possibility as defined by our beliefs and filter everything else out.

In his book, Why We Believe What We Believe: Uncovering out Biological Need for Meaning, Spirituality, and Truth, Dr. Andrew Newburg writes:

Although we have neural receptors for various colours, including those that respond to “blackness” and “whiteness,” there is no neural receptor that distinguishes any gradation of gray. No one knows for sure where the experience of gray occurs, but one theory suggests that it is a concept fabricated in another part of the brain when both the blackness and the whiteness receptors are turned off. Gray, like many other colors we can imagine, is a belief construction within the brain – a form of understanding, a thought.

What does that mean?

Why do we see grey?  The above passage suggests that we see it because we believe it is there.  I was told what grey was and I believed it to be true.  Now when I see it, I identify it as such. Grey.

Grey exists because we believe it exists. Really?

This makes sense to me on some level; I don’t believe in absolutes, which means anything is possible.  However, if grey only exists because we believe it exists, then what else only exists in our thoughts?

I think about this kind of stuff all the time.  If it wasn’t so fascinating, it would be exhausting.  I hope you’ve enjoyed the tour of my thought process (and that you are now as confused and awe-struck as I am).

Does anyone else think of this kind of stuff?
So, who has answers?  Anyone?  Anyone?  Bueller?

For the past 24 hours, I’ve been on a mission.  I decided that I would flash a smile at every person I made eye contact with.  Everyone.  Wherever I went.

I learned a few things:

1. It isn’t easy
2. A lot of people don’t make eye contact
3. People are not used to having strangers smile at them for no apparent reason

I am not going to lie; it was awkward.  Some people did a double-take before smiling back – and some people didn’t smile back at all (though, they were few).

Mostly, people smiled back at me and seemed to genuinely appreciate that I had acknowledged them.  I exchanged a few hellos and how are yous and it felt really good to connect with complete strangers whom I will likely never see again (or remember).

It was an amazing experiment.  It felt good to smile for 24 hours.  It felt good to make other people smile.  It felt good to connect.  I recommend it.  I will probably do it again tomorrow… and the next day.  Maybe not everyone, but everyday!

Smile!

Earlier today, I hosted a pity-party for myself.  I do that.  The theme for today’s was my blog, specifically my perceived expectations of my readers and my current lack of inspiration.

I felt bound by my blog, bound to it, and bound by my own expectations of what the content should be, what I should write about, and what should inspire me.  I am not good with shoulds.  So, there I was – feeling restricted by my own perceptions, assumptions, and expectations.

As I was belly-aching on Twitter, I remembered a message I received from a friend a few months ago.  That switched my perspective immediately; I write this blog because I want to share my inspirations and, hopefully, inspire others. You.  My readers.

With the blessing of my friend, here is an excerpt of the message:

I’m writing you to let you know that I value you, that I think you are amazing, that you cannot know what an asset you are to this world.

I was reading your letters to Q and hopefully that what I learnt from you, I can take it back to my home and hopefully restore peace and love. Thank you Sarah for a better understanding of this world.

Beautiful.  Touching.  Humbling.

Perspective.  Always perspective.  Thank you, my beautiful friend (I know you are reading this) for giving me perspective and inspiring me to appreciate what I am doing and what I have done, instead of focusing on what I am not doing or what I should be doing.

Thank you all.

At this very moment, I am sitting beside an open window while the rain pelts down.  I take in the smell the rain-soaked concrete and watch the patterns the drops leave on the glass, which is angled perfectly to catch them.

Lovely.

Life.  Falling from the sky.  The grass will be greener and the birds better fed.

Yesterday, my brother, Mr. T, and I relieved my mother of all her worldly goods.  Okay, maybe not all…but the good stuff.  Mom is moving and will no longer have a yard, so she gave us all the things she won’t need.  It was a productive haul.

I got a porch swing (the fact that I don’t actually have a porch is of minor significance).

When we got home last night, it was too late to assemble the swing (and by assemble, I mean screw in 4 bolts and hang the canopy & swing).  I silently resolved to do it today by myself.

I don’t like tools.

I know nothing about them.  In fact, as my brother was disassembling the swing, I said “Hmm, I wonder if we have those tools…” to which he responded “they are just 2 wrenches.”  I kid you not.  Nor do I exaggerate.  I have no inclination to build, assemble, or have any other use for tools (except maybe a screwdriver – though, I do avoid changing batteries if I need one).

Wielding tools – not my strength.  Not my preference.  It’s a personal thing – I was in no way discouraged from using them as a child because I am a girl.  In fact, I was encouraged to use them; my mother used them all the time and fixed all sorts of things.  She painted the outside of our entire house once.  No, I did not learn this from my parents.  I just don’t like them.

So there I was this morning, set to assemble a porch swing (4 bolts).  I scavenged the basement and garage and found 2 lock wrenches (yes, I had to look that up), which I realize was overkill, but I couldn’t find any regular wrenches that fit.  I carried all the pieces to the chosen spot in the yard and got started.  Being that my only option for assistance was a 2 year old, I had to be creative.  I struggled with the pieces and cursed the tedium of my repeated actions while Q quietly played in the yard.

At one point, he came over and picked a wrench up.  “That’s Daddy’s” he said.  Uh-oh.  So, I responded “Is that only Daddy’s?  Can it be mommy’s too?”  “No.” “Why not?”  “Because it gives owies.”  Crap.  This is where personal preference becomes bigger than personal preference.  It happens that my personal preference supports gender stereotypes and, unintentionally, perpetuates certain assumptions that go along with that – even for a 2 year old.

For whatever reason, Q equated tools with Daddy with strength (which is a fair association, being that Mr. T is a million times stronger that I am and is the only one using tools around here).  However, the implications of this are not lost on me.  Implications are more powerful than intention, which means we need to be more aware of what we are modeling.  We each have our strengths and preferences – sometimes they coincide with gender stereotypes, and sometimes they don’t.

I believe that focussing on personal strengths over societal expectations is crucial.  But am I now faced with implicitly teaching my son that tools are for men because men are strong?  Or, maybe I am making too big a leap.

At what point does Daddy = men and  mommy = women? When does the individual start representing the collective?

I finished the swing.  It was actually no easy task even though it was only 4 bolts, but it was worth it.