:Count:

My name is Sam, and I often have a hard time living 'thanksgivingly'.

We have all certainly heard the now-clichés about counting our blessings, and living with an 'attitude of gratitude', or how we all have more to be thankful for than we realize, such as every breath we breathe and every day we wake up again to see the sun rise.

But like any 'cliché', it only is a cliché in the first place because it touches on a fundamental truth about our lives as people (and yes, I am aware as I write this that even that statement has become a cliché in its own right).

There is something to be said for the way in which you begin to approach every situation in life when you choose to operate from a place of gratitude, rather than the typical ignorance or indifference. When I say ignorance or indifference, I am not speaking here of being ignorant or indifferent, but rather of the typical 'ignoring' of the 'little things', or the general non-acknowledgement which so often accompanies our responses to life. See, it's not that we're necessarily ignorant, or particularly indifferent... It's just that we don't tend to live our lives with those 'little blessings' in the forefront of our minds, shaping the way we perceive the world (i.e. presumably prompting us to more positive, grateful responses). Then again, perhaps the fact that we don't live with those things front-and-center to a greater extent does make us ignorant and indifferent...at least in regards to life's blessings.

I've found it to be an extremely positive exercise (when I take the time to do it, which, unfortunately, is not nearly often enough) to write down, in any given moment, the things I am thankful for right then and there. No matter how small, no matter how big. No matter if I've written that thing on the list before, no matter if I've written it a thousand times. There is something about naming your blessings--calling them out--that holds the power to shift your focus and change your outlook in powerful ways. Because it's true: we've all got at least a couple of things in any given moment that we can be thankful for. And it's good practice to remind ourselves of those things: I am breathing. I'm alive. The sun is shining. I have a home. I have food. I have a job. I've been forgiven and set free. 

The list goes on.

It's just not always easy to live in this mindset, especially because we get so preoccupied with our busyness and everything else in our lives, and we tend to dwell on what isn't  working, rather than what is, which is actually quite a natural response, because, after all, what isn't working obviously needs to be fixed, and what is working is working, so why mess with it (or in some cases, even pay attention to it at all)?

And this is why it's important to make the conscious choice to recall these things to mind, no matter what they are. To write them where they will remind us how fortunate we are to even have the chance to sit down and reflect on our lives in peace and comfort. We need the reminders, because we so easily forget.

I, for one, want to spend more time trying to remember.

My name is Sam, and I often have a hard time living 'thanksgivingly'.

:Snow:

My name is Samuel, and I love snow days.

I know, there are a good majority of people out there who will hate me just for having said that. But it's true. I love being snowed in.

Maybe it's the quiet that comes with a heavy blanket of snow--the fact that noise seems to fall flat in front of you, travelling only inches before falling to the ground.

Maybe it's the white--the bright, unblemished canvas on which the sun plays and dances, and everything which passes leaves its unique mark--its personalized print--a signature in time.

Maybe it's the softness...the world's edges blurred for a while, made downy and less harsh by the abrasion of icy cotton.

Maybe it's the demands snow makes: 

     Slow down!

          Watch where you step!

               Take a look around you!

                    Hibernate a while!

Maybe it's the allure...its sultry drifting from the sky...the casual, free, unapologetic covering of anything it touches...the mesmerizing motion of a million frozen molecules making magic momentarily tangible.

Maybe it's the fact that I was born in the winter...in Canada...during a blizzard. Or the fact that I grew up tobogganing, skating on frozen ponds and canals, Christmas tree hunting in knee-deep drifts, drinking hot chocolate on lazy, long-night snow rides, tapping maple trees with friends and boiling the sap down around a cozy fire, bundled up against the cold, despite the fire's warmth. Building snow forts during recess, and having massive, school-wide snowball fights. Making igloos in the backyard. Going out snowplowing with my dad. 

I loved being sent home early from school because of the snow. Or not having to even go in the first place! Nothing beats that as a kid. And as an adult, you never get snow days. Unless you make them.

No matter how you cut it, I love a good, solid snowfall. 

Go ahead and disagree. I'll just stay over here, enjoying the magic of winter, while we still have winters to enjoy.

My name is Samuel, and I love snow days.

:Poppy:

My name is Sam, and the older I get, the more important remembrance seems to be.

It's an interesting thing to watch in your own life-- you're young, and you want nothing to do with the traditions and stale routines of the older generations...you have a hard time understanding their importance and value, and find little joy and comfort in spending time focused on things that happened in the past, or "the way we used to do it". Everything is new, and fresh, and exciting, and if it's never been done before, even better!

But then you begin to realize that...wait... It really has all been done before. And these traditions and routines hold value... And there's a reason we keep ourselves rooted and grounded in where we have been...because it helps us to keep a handle on who we are now and where we are headed in the future.

Take the old hymns in church; I used to get sick of them. I know, it's something akin to sacrilege to say so, but it's true. I remember sitting in church ahead of the service, looking up each of the songs in the hymnal, to see how long they were, hoping against hope that the pastor and the worship director had picked short songs (or at least only the first, third, and fith verses!). I remember being excited when the doxology was the threefold amen, rather than the sevenfold. And I remember wondering if the services were ever going to end, especially on years where Christmas landed in such a way that we were in church for Christmas Eve, Christmas, and the Sunday (morning and evening) services all in the same three days, back to back to back. It was too much for a little guy to take (or at least, I seemed to think so at the time)!

Now, I know, can see, and have experienced the richness of the rooted-ness that comes from knowing that you are singing songs that have been sung throughout the generations of faith. Songs that tell the story of our beliefs and theology in a completely unique way. Songs that bring out he themes of sin, redemption, salvation, revelation, and so much more in a powerful, and often timeless, way. Does it mean that I don't subscribe to the newer songs and traditions within the church? Absolutely not! But there is a richness to be found in the combination of the old and the new-- the new song alongside the timeless classic-- that cannot be fully expressed in words. There is a comfort, too, connected to the fact that these songs are our history, the legacy of those who have gone before us in the faith. Through them, we can feel a connection with people long gone; without these songs, we might find very little in common with them at all. There is a deep sense of belonging to be found in many traditions we so easily dismiss.

Or take the picture above: Remembrance Day. As a kid, I thought the poppies were cool. I wanted one because everyone else had one. Not because I understood. Then, we moved away to the US for about eight years. Coming back to Canada, I felt a strange nostalgia and connection to this simple action of pinning a poppy on my lapel each November. I began to think about the reason we do this in Canada; to remember those who gave their lives in the service of our freedom. And it's become a simple, yet profound way for me to express the pride I take in the country I am from, and the thankfulness I have for the freedoms that I all-too-often am guilty of taking for granted...freedoms that we didn't always have.

So it's made me think: maybe that's the secret...the connection. These things; these traditions, memorials, routines, whatever, become important when we begin to understand the meaning behind them. When they take on a personal meaning because of experience, or simply being able to grasp and understand the depth of the tradition in a more concrete way. See, without meaning, traditions are just that-- things we do because we've always done them. But once you connect meaning to them, they become personal. They become important. The become...well...meaningful.

In the past few years, especially since getting married and having kids, I've begun to realize that tradition is a beautiful thing. Sure, there are traditions that are pointless, and some that I'll never adopt in my own life. But there is a richness of heritage, history, and faith in my ancestry, and in some of these things, I can find a grounded-ness and rooting that I'd be hard-pressed to find in many other places. So I make some of these things a part of my life, and a part of the life of my family...

...Lest we forget.

Because, in the end, if we forget who we are, and where we've come from (in any area of life whatsoever), doesn't it leave us stranded somewhere, disconnected? Aren't we doomed to repeat history's mistakes? To think that we've got it figured out, because, after all, we're the only ones we are comparing ourselves to?

I don't know about anyone else...but I, for one, like to remember. To be connected. To look back and learn. And to celebrate where I've come from, as I continue to head where I'm going.

My name is Sam, and the older I get, the more important remembrance seems to be.

:Fore!:

My name is Sam, and for me, golf is kryptonite.

Of course, I should say that in all honesty, I've mostly only ever (how's that for 3rd-grade English?) played mini-golf...

...as in, I've only ever been real golfing once in my life. And it was only nine holes, at that. With clubs that were likely too short for me. And no official training whatsoever.

It was an interesting experience. We (my brother and I) played the back nine holes at a local course  with a couple of guys we knew, who were actually pretty big into golf. Ben and I had never (at that time anyway) cared much fore the sport (no pun intended)...in fact, you couldn't convince me at that point in my life that it actually was a sport, much like country music isn't music...

Wait, that's my 14-year-old self speaking.

Needless to say, things change over the years (don't worry, my definition of 'sport' and 'music' are much, much, much broader, now...)

So we decided to give it a shot (no pun intended) anyway, and see how it turned out.

I'm pretty sure I broke every golf rule there is that day. 

Being new, I had no clue the different tee-off spots were gender-specific (they may not be as tight about this everywhere, but at this particular place, it was a big faux-pas. So I teed off several times from the wrong place until I was corrected.

Then, I couldn't get the swing of (again, no pun intended) hitting with the driver (I found it awkward and didn't feel like I could get control of it properly), so I did all my driving with an 8-iron.

My drives were almost always good, and I'd usually make it to the green in two shots, unless there was a water feature on the hole...in which case, I always found the drink, rather than the green.

A fair ways (okay, okay, these puns are definitely intended) in, I realized that, aside from the water, what was hurting my score was my putting. Which seemed really ridiculous to me, since all I had ever done with a golf ball (aside from playing baseball with them) was mini-putting. Seemed to me I should have been pro at that part of the game. Apparently not.

By the end of the game, I hadn't really improved on my hole-to-hole score, and ended the nine holes with a score of 99. 

My only consolation? My brother scored 111 on the same nine holes.

I haven't been since then, partly because I don't think those two guys ever wanted to be seen on  by golf course with us again, and partly because I've never had the money to give it an honest try--it's a pretty pricey game.

Maybe one day. I'd imagine, that at the very least, I'd do better than I did that time. Then again, who knows?

My name is Sam, and for me, golf is kryptonite.

:Keys:

My name is Sam, and I have actually only done this once.

It was a complete "brain fart", as they say. I had been driving since three in the morning, on my way back to Alberta from Kelowna for my then-fiancee's (now wife) graduation from college. I was in Banff, Alberta, fueling up my little, red Dodge Colt for the second leg of the journey.

At the time, in typical late-nineties/early 2000's fashion (even though it was by now the mid-2000's), I kept my keys on a lanyard. It was an easy way for me to keep track of them, with what essentially amounted to a bright red ribbon hanging off of them. 

But one thing you need to know about me: I am anal when it comes to my keys, wallet, phone, etc. I always put them back in the same spot...they never leave my hand if they aren't either in my pocket, the ignition, or that spot...and I never ever lock my house or car without first checking that I've got my keys in my hand.

So, I got out of my car, started pumping gas, and went inside to pay (unlike in BC, Alberta still allowed post-pay at some places, rather than always being pre-pay). When I came out and attempted to get into my car, I found it locked.

No problem, self! I thought, reaching into my pocket for my keys. I'll have us out of here in a jiffy! (Though, why I was talking as if my self was several different people, and why one of them used the word 'jiffy' is still a mystery to me). But then, these thoughts were quickly followed by: Oh, no, self! We have a BIG problem!, along with all the heart-dropping-to-your-feet, stomach-roiling-like-a-hurricane sensations a roller coaster fanatic could ask for (please note: none of the aforementioned 'selves' are roller coaster fanatics).

For you see, unbeknownst to me until this moment, this particular time, I had failed to check that my keys were in my hands before locking the door. They were, therefore, hanging cheerily from my ignition without a care in the world, waiting for me patiently. They weren't in any hurry.

So I ran back into the kiosk, and asked the attendant if he had a slim jim or a coat hanger I could use to jimmy my lock...he had neither. So he directed me to the phone number for the only towing company in town.

Now, the thing is, when you are the only company who provides a service in a particular town, and the town in question is the only town for miles and miles in any direction, you can charge whatever you want for the services you offer. When I called the towing company, I expected the price it currently cost  to pop a lock in Kelowna, which was about $40 (I knew this because I worked at a dealership in town...not because this had happened before). As much as I hated the idea of spending $40 I didn't really have on something like this, it had to be done.

When the trucker arrived, he took out a small wedge (it looked like a door stop), shoved it between my window and the rubber seal, slipped a slim jim into the gap, popped the lock, and began writing up the invoice for his services.

Yes, it was that fast. I'm pretty sure you can't read that sentence faster than he popped the lock.

When he handed me the invoice, I just about fell over backwards.

$70.

Yes, $70 for thirty seconds of work. I'm in the wrong business.

I paid him (obviously), and went on my way. Needless to say, I haven't made that same mistake ever again since that day.

And I've since then always carried a spare, just on the off-chance...

My name is Sam, and I have actually only done this once. Thank goodness.