The Strength of Silence

I have a number of social media accounts: Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn, Google+, and now to a limited extent, WordPress.  All are a part of my methods of communicating and expressing myself in the great world wide web.  It’s almost too much to take in.  And oft times I have found myself with the situation in which I’m not really sure what to do.

My standard course of action when I’m overwhelmed?  Do nothing.
Sometimes it works.

In the case of finances, if I can’t decide on what to spend my money on, I don’t buy anything.  When it comes to forming an opinion on a certain matter, if I can’t form words in a polite and civil manner, I do my best to hold my tongue.

When I’m not sure what to write about, I will chose to refrain from writing.
This one can get destructive, because it builds on itself.

Pass up one day of writing, “I’ll catch up tomorrow.”
Two days, “Well, it hasn’t been that long.”
Three days, “Eee… What am I going to do today?  Eh, what’s one more day?”
Four days, “I was going to do something today…”

You get the picture.

But other moments of silence are something to treasure.

When I commute on my bicycle, which I hope to start doing again come May, there is a zen feeling going along a country road under your own pedal power.  Of course the zen gets interrupted with the whooshing of cars travelling 80 kph a mere meter (or less) to my left, but managing my reaction to that is also a part of the balance required.

My wife and I enjoy fervent and spirited conversations, but we also sit in silence, each content with the other’s company.  I’m not sure what our record is for silence spent together, and I wouldn’t go so far to include time spent asleep.  However, earlier on in our marriage, I had carried on conversations with my wife which she could never recall.  I soon learned that it’s best to wait until she is completely awake before engaging in conversations of a critical nature.  Words may be exchanged, but the memory is of silence.

May sound poetic, but it’s a huge pain.

Then there is the stereotypical perfect child.  The one that is asleep.  And quiet.
Though we have that situation with my younger daughter while she’s awake, as her Grandma has written about previously, and it’s not always good.  If Grandma needs to get a hearing aid to listen to my daughter, then so do I!

Home Is Where Your Rump Rests

Home is where your rump restsEvery time people ask me where I grew up, I find that a bit of a difficult question to answer.  When I saw The Lion King, I found myself nodding in agreement to Pumbaa’s statement, “Home is where your rump rests.”

Until someone told me about the term “Army Brat.”  Then it was much simpler to explain.

My father was career military, retired when I was twenty years old and out of the house, so we moved quite often while I was growing up.  To my memory, the longest we stayed in any place was Petawawa where we lived for four years.  But most of the places we lived, we were able to walk to school.  Church, not always, but those we the two things my parents looked for in acquiring property.  I should not that they only bought houses in Gloucester (Ottawa), Greenfield Park (Montreal), and St. Albert (Edmonton).

Note: The locations listed in brackets are the cities I list first when people ask where I grew up.

And since I returned from my mission – which was served in Greece and Cyprus – I have lived in Edmonton.  Mostly.  I still moved around a lot, once every two or three years, but I have stayed within the same geographical area for the more part.

Do I have any regrets for the frequent moving?  Not really.  I am quite adept in both of my home country’s official languages because of my upbringing and where ever I go I tend to find someone I know.  At times, it seems like the best way to clean the house.  As my daughter has reminded me as of late.

A chore chart may be in order.