CaptainOrange

I played a lot of hacky sack when I was in university. Like so many of my activities, I'm afraid I did it to the point of obsession. My main partner for the game was Dave. We would find a patch of grass in a park and hack for hours at a time. He used to make fun of me for a particular behaviour that I would engage in as I played. Each time I passed the hacky sack to him, I would quickly grab a pinecone, or a small stick that was in the grass and toss it out of my zone of play, which I called my "spot." Clearing my spot was an obsessive activity that I engaged in every time I played the game. Dave said I reminded him of a squirrel--running round collecting things in the grass and organizing them. I just wanted my area to be clear of debris. Poor choice during partner's zoom call 25 years later, I was having a conversation with Wendy. I was trying to explain--yet another instance--of why I liked a particular piece of Lululemon clothing. I may have already told you abou...

While on one of my regular visits to the Royal University Hospital’s Paediatric Ward, I was asked by the recreational therapist, Kelsey, if I would do a storytime for a child named “H.” Of course I would. That’s the entire purpose of being there, after all. All smiles  and sitting up in bed, H is a bright child of six. Her hand (which has recently been shattered) is wrapped in gauze and held in a splint reaching to her elbow. I’ve been doing visits like this for quite a while now and I quickly go into my usual routine. I’m silly and disarming. We wear finger puppets (H can only wear them on one hand), sing songs and read some pop-up books. I make a lot of “mistakes” while reading and H quickly corrects me. I fall over constantly. I’m afraid of all the beeping noises in her room and all of the scary things in the books. H laughs at me for being afraid—especially of the lion finger puppet. She is interested and engaged—one of the easiest story times I’ve had in weeks. Then the nu...

The Preamble I've just spent what could have been a nothing-to-do weekend at a work-sponsored class on storytelling. Having known about it for a month or so, I have been living in anticipatory dread the entire time. I didn't really know what I thought was going to happen. On reflection, it was a problem I have been dancing around all year. I'm scared to let myself down. If I don't blow away expectations, I feel like a failure. No pressure there. To combat this problem, my usual solution is to lower expectations so that it is easy to surpass them. That is likely familiar to some of you. Perhaps you are someone who eats expectations for breakfast. I'm working on it. For right now, I lost not a few nights of sleep worrying about what story I might do and thinking more than once about giving a co-worker, Jim, my spot in the workshop. I'm sure he wishes he could have taken part. Having managed to go, in the end, I wouldn't trade it for anything. And I didn...