Musings

Juxta (next to). Pose (to place). Juxtapose (to place next to).

‘Juxtaposition‘ describes a situation where two elements that don’t seem to belong together are placed side by side. The contrast heightens emotional impact, creates irony, conveys a clash of realities, and engages the reader, viewer, or listener more dynamically than if each element was presented by itself.

Drama uses juxtaposition to take us through a process of catharsis that messes with our emotional and rational sensitivities. Shakespeare interweaves comedy with the deepest angst of human experience in his tragedies to increase or reduce the tension. In one brief phrase, “Parting is such sweet sorrow,” he points out the complexities of emotions that may co-exist at the same time.

Two movies to illustrate the concept of juxtaposition.

The first is rather dark. In Good Morning Vietnam (1987), Louis Armstrong slowly and softly sings What a Wonderful World while film footage shows the brutal oppression of civilians and chaotic destruction of war.

The second example is far more uplifting.

Thrown together in a dramatic manner and unable to escape from each other, they share a spellbinding series of adventures and complete a remarkable journey. In the process, Carl and Russell fulfil not only their separate life ambitions but also forge an extraordinary friendship, a depth of relationship that warms the heart and uplifts the spirit. Young and old are blended into a beautiful shared space of doing life together.

Life is full of juxtaposition.

The pain and pleasure of giving birth. The fears and uncertainties, yet pride and anticipation, of walking a preschooler into their first kindergarten class. The bittersweet goodbye to a child heading to college across the country. Opposite sensitivities within you crash into each other.

Personal examples.

I recently had a difficult conversation with a long-term friend. Looking forward to meeting for coffee, I also needed to talk about something he had done that still disturbed me. I hate such times. Who do I think I am to confront him as if I’m on some higher plane of moral judgment. It could get complicated, and messy, very quickly.

Messy did happen to me during the months of COVID-19. Another friend could not resist their missionary zeal to spread the word about how vaccines, masks, government interventions, etc. were all wrong. When that unsolicited zeal (and literature) was directed at someone close to me, in essence interfering in how children should be raised, I ‘lost it.’ No question I should have done the old farmer thing of sleeping on it but I didn’t.

An unpleasant email exchange quickly intruded upon the joys of a long-term friendship. Allies were on the verge of becoming adversaries. How did I get there? Well, I did it all by myself. I couldn’t handle the juxtaposition of the positive aspects of the friendship with the invasion of all the COVID agenda that we viewed in such completely different ways.

A mutual desire for reconciliation did eventually occur. Just moving on without resolution was distasteful to both of us. We are still working through it but there is a lingering negative effect on the purity of the relationship.

Back to my coffee friend. We did a version of ‘just moving on’ and finished our coffee with talk about other things. To avoid the yukky stuff that would arise if we pursued the issue. I think we both figured the rough waters would settle into a backwater of minimal intrusion on our relationship. The future will show if any repercussions for having taken the avoidance approach.

So, you may ask, “Where is the juxtaposition in that story? Right now it just looks sad, like dirt being swept under a carpet.”

Yes, I left the coffee shop with a restless dissatisfaction about raising the issue and getting nowhere. My next stop was the local grocery store. Where a spontaneous exchange with an elderly (probably my age) British lady brought the joy back into my spirit. She was too short to reach a package of creamer on the top shelf of a refrigerator unit. It was almost too high for even me (6’2″) as I had to step on the frame sill to get there. But I succeeded and there were smiles all around. And the lady said, “I always meet the nicest people when I go shopping.” That was me she was talking about. The unpleasant taste of my coffee meeting was jolted by a reminder of goodness from an unexpected source.

Our daily lives are full of opportunities to juxtapose hard, difficult, dissatisfying, discouraging experiences with gentle, rewarding, uplifting, fulfilling engagements if we are open to them.

Two more examples from that same grocery store outing. At the checkout, the lady in front of me apologized for not putting the separation bar down at the end of her line of groceries. “I don’t usually do the shopping so I forgot how it is done.” Again, smiles all around as I assured her it wasn’t a problem.

Then, the lady just behind me noticed the ju jubes I was buying. She asked if they were the sour kind (they weren’t) and shared how she likes the black ones. And how she bought ju jubes for last Halloween but ate all the black ones right away and had to go and buy more for the trick-or-treaters. Yes, you guessed it, smiles all around.

Joy and sorrow. Gentle and harsh. Laughter and tears. Should I carry on or do you get the picture? It’s all there side-by-side every day of life. Seeming opposites juxtaposed – placed right beside each other. And our challenge is to figure out what to do with it all.

Back to Carl and Russell.

One of the most challenging juxtapositions in life is bringing the old and the young together. There are now five generations active in the workforce. Every sector of society is trying to figure out how to make it work well. If crotchety Carl and rambunctious Russell did it, maybe we can too.

There is a lot of advice out there for people my age to ‘assist’ us in making good and better decisions. Old-people jokes like “Don’t buy any green bananas” aren’t very helpful. Yet I am interested in figuring out how to make wise purchases during my elder years. Especially when this season of life includes that huge intrusive word called ‘downsizing.’ Anyone who has moved to a condominium apartment from 30 years in the same house knows the impact of how much stuff you have and how big or small it is. And so my theme – what do I really need?

How much is enough?
When I do need something (even after major downsizing), is it adequate to buy the entry-level version of a product or do I need top-of-the-line? Will I expire even before the warranty of the new thing I am buying? Is used better than new? To those of you who know the benefits of shopping at Value Village, I admire and envy you. So, how much is enough?

I don’t have a neat and tidy how-to manual for you. But a few personal examples may demonstrate some of the thoughts that go through my mind when I buy stuff these days. And may also illustrate that, quite often in life, ‘less is more.’

A New Electric Shaver

After 15 or more years, it was time to replace my electric shaver. I’ve pretty much always been a Braun shaver loyalist other than brief and somewhat bloody excursions into manual straight razors. Costco carried only the top-of-the-line Braun Series 9 with a hefty $379 (plus taxes) price tag. It definitely was in a class of its own. Multidirectional shaver head. Large brick charger. Even its own little bathtub for cleaning. A lot to pack up for trips. The bathtub would probably stay at home. I looked at the shaver every time I was at Costco. But just could not overcome the barrier of paying that much for something that simply cut the hair off my face.

Browsing at London Drugs one day, I saw the same Series 9 (S9) on sale for $279 (plus taxes). Yes! That was a bit more ‘reasonable.’ So I bought it. The bathtub was quite a mystery to me so I downloaded the manual (of course, there were almost no instructions in the box itself). After letting it sit unused for several days on the bathroom counter, I faced the same mental hurdle as with the $379 version. So I returned it.

When back at London Drugs, I asked to see other options for Braun electric shavers. A young man unlocked the cupboard (yes, these instruments of warfare on your face were considered just as worthy of protection from theft as guns and Bowie knives). He had to stand there while I looked at several other models. And there, to my joy, was a Braun Series 7 (S7). Regular price $269 on sale for $179. I bought it. When opening the box at home, I felt like Goldilocks with the porridge, chair, and bed. “Ah, just right!” Nice and compact. Flexible head. No bathtub. Small charger unit. And my face responded to S7 so well right away. It didn’t need top-of-the-line to be happy.

Postscript: Since writing the above paragraphs, I have been totally satisfied with S7. It is everything I hoped it would be. A joy to shave. And, I may have been a bit hasty in assuring S5 that I would use it occasionally.

A New Toaster

We needed a new toaster at our lake cabin. My spouse and I headed to the local Co-op store. Two toasters were on display. The one for $95 was radiant with chrome and neat ‘bells and whistles.’ The other, for $28, was chromeless and drab white. It had nothing but two little slots (no bagels please), a skimpy push-down lever, and a cheap slide button for degree of crustiness.

I gently took 95 out of its box in a manner similar to the first time I held our bishon frisé puppy. A pup that was supposed to be a ‘lap’ dog but grew to hang down to the floor on both sides of my lap. Shaken out of my reverie by a quiet voice, I heard the question, “And how many more years do you think you’re going to need a toaster?” I was about 67 at the time. It’s probably not necessary to say it was toaster 28 that I carried to the checkout and not 95. And, with my one free hand, I waved a sad goodbye to 95.

To not share the rest of the story would be quite selfish of me. That shopping trip happened about 10 years ago and, since then, 28 has produced a consistent product without complaint. My doubts have turned to confidence and trust. There is no indication of old age in 28 even as it sees me gradually moving into that realm myself. And, with 28 being pure white as was our bichon, I find myself cradling it gently from the shelf to the counter each morning. At least 28 has not grown to hang down to the floor on both sides of my lap.

So, back to the question, “How much is enough?”
As you can see from my two examples, I seem to be moving into a more conservative approach to the issue. Sometimes ‘less is more.’ More satisfying to know you dialed yourself back a little. Exercised some self-discipline. Saved a few dollars that maybe you could be generous with to help someone else. Made a statement to unbridled consumerism that you weren’t in that game anymore.

While holding your version of that $389 shaver or $98 toaster, don’t rush to the checkout station. Pause. Ask yourself the question, “How will I feel when I get home, have a sleep, and look at this thing tomorrow? What will I think then? Will I be glad that . . . or will I wish that . . .?”

If you had gone for the ‘less is more’ choice, there is a good chance you will be glad.

Addendum
I thought I was done with this piece. But it was still in the outbox awaiting publication on the website. So, an experience a few days ago is too relevant to ignore.

A New Electric Toothbrush

Between my wife and my dental hygienist, I was compelled to convert to a battery-operated toothbrush about three years ago. And, with additional loving (wife) and kind (hygienist) pressure, I upped the ante to using it twice a day (sometimes) from just once.

Due to a lack of loving kindness on my part, my toothbrush usually looks pretty yukky and in need of a good cleaning. So, when at Costco recently, I was drawn to the new Oral-B iO model on sale at what I thought was an attractive price. Especially since, in one box, you got two full sets (one black and one white) of toothbrushes, chargers, travel cases, etc. I was quite sure my wife would also love to have the latest Oral-B iO. And, knowing I can always (and often have to) take things back to Costco, I bought the box plus a set of additional brush heads (also on a good sale).

At that point, upon returning home, I put myself straight back into the grip of the new toaster inquiry process. I tried to stress the encroaching old age of my Oral-B set. Thankfully, I wasn’t asked the “And how many more years do you think you’re going to need . . .?” question. That would be like trying to guess when all my teeth would be falling out. But you probably already know where this ended. The two boxes are sitting beside me patiently awaiting their return journey to Costco.

I’m actually okay with it.
My motivating question for this piece was “How much is enough?” And I even included in the title a response: “Sometimes ‘less is more’.” To get to that ‘less,’ there are times when we need external help for making the decision. And we are fortunate if we have people and other positive influences in life to provide that assistance. So that, when we get home (from return trip to Costco), have a sleep, and look back at it tomorrow, we can honestly say, “I’m glad that . . .” rather than “I wish that . . .”

It was a 5 kilometre community run for a cancer charity. I had just started distance running (at age 55) and was testing my speed intervals in preparation for an upcoming longer run. Approaching the last kilometre, I overtook a young man who was slightly swaying from side to side at a slow pace. I saw that he had some type of foot deformity. Spontaneous admiration overwhelmed me. Someone so ill-suited for distance running was putting himself ‘out there’ for charity. Then, coming alongside him, my respect rose to another dimension as I heard him saying to himself, over and over again, “Almost there . . . Almost there.”

Here I was, just finishing a distance that had become rather blasé to me as my sights were already on a half-marathon. And here he was, doing something that he may never do again. Likely doing it now only because of someone special to him that was in battle with cancer. And it didn’t matter to him how awkward he looked. Nor how physically difficult this run would be for him. There was no way that he was going to do anything but finish the distance.

Breathe in, “Almost there.” Breathe out, “Almost there.”

I slowed down, fit in alongside, and tracked with him for the remaining distance to the finish line. I could have overtaken and ‘blown by’ him and crossed the line at my own pace by myself. And the event would have fallen into the backroom of my running memory as I sought new hills to climb. But I paused to settle in beside him. To fully embrace the gift of a special moment in life. He never looked at me. His gaze was fixed on the path before him. And so, side by side, we breathed in, “Almost there,” and breathed out, “Almost there.”

My sense of awe is still with me today, more than 20 years later. I see that young man in front of me, then beside me, and finally, crossing the finish line before me. He was finally ‘there.’ We never spoke. I didn’t ask his name. I had the privilege of being in the presence of a true champion.

He probably didn’t realize how his “Almost there!” had tapped into the running community’s philosophy of having a mantra to get you through tough times. When your body and brain want to shrivel up and assume a fetal position on the ground, you utter, mutter, whisper, cry out a brief but pungent phrase that jumpstarts you to keep going and not quit. His feet, legs, and entire being had established a limping rhythm of endurance to accompany the in and out of his breath and whispered “almost there.”

I am thankful for the example that young man was to me – to rise above physical and other limitations, to carry on in the face of adversity, to find motivational keys for an extra boost when needed most, and to continue to cross finish lines of desired goals not only in running but also in life.

I needed some place to put the sadness.

The Lady in Blue

I didn’t want to be forward.
She should have been beautiful – blond, young, slim, poised.
But disturbed.
Here we were in our little room with two open ends.
She, me, an elderly man pursing his lips and blinking his eyes.
Waiting to be called to see the man
in another little room with
four close walls
but bright lights
and look to the left, to the right, up and down.
“I lost sight in my eye a week ago.
They don’t know what it is.”
A quiver, a tremor, a single look into the unknown.
I was turned toward her
my own left eye closed.
Not a large gap, an easy reach
to speak, to touch, to affirm.
Yet a gulf of resistance.
I don’t know her,
what would she think.
The lady in blue came in
and called her name.
I wished her well
and faced forward again.

I took a risk putting that poem ‘out there.’ What impressions would I be giving of “Just who do I think I am anyway?” Be assured that I do not consider myself a poet.

I was going to add some context before or after the poem. To say that I did not remember when I wrote it (quite some time ago). Or why (other than I was evidently at an eye appointment). But I then remembered I should not interfere with the poem itself. I needed to allow you space to pause and reflect, perhaps to find some deep personal meaning from it.

However, I am okay with self-proclaiming the poem as being just an example of a ‘little ditty.’ I expect you did not have to meditate for long before moving on. But perhaps I could have added a layer of intrigue by repeating the final line:

I wished her well
and faced forward again,
and faced forward again.

That might have qualified me to sit beside Robert Frost on the platform of the poets’ conference. In his poem, Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening (a copy is included below), Frost repeated the final line:

the woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I have promises to keep,
and miles to go before I sleep,
and miles to go before I sleep.

It isn’t clear what Frost did or didn’t say when often asked to comment on this poem. Folklore suggests at least two responses: “If I could tell you what it meant, there would be no reason to write the poem” and “Like a piece of ice on a hot stove, the poem must ride on its own meaning.”

And so, I leave my poem with you. Do feel free to repeat its final line, “and faced forward again,” if that adds value to your experience.

The Lady in Blue

I didn’t want to be forward.
She should have been beautiful – blond, young, slim, poised.
But disturbed.
Here we were in our little room with two open ends.
She, me, an elderly man pursing his lips and blinking his eyes.
Waiting to be called to see the man
in another little room with
four close walls
but bright lights
and look to the left, to the right, up and down.
“I lost sight in my eye a week ago.
They don’t know what it is.”
A quiver, a tremor, a single look into the unknown.
I was turned toward her
my own left eye closed.
Not a large gap, an easy reach
to speak, to touch, to affirm.
Yet a gulf of resistance.
I don’t know her,
what would she think.
The lady in blue came in
and called her name.
I wished her well
and faced forward again.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
By Robert Frost (1922)

Whose woods these are I think I know.   
His house is in the village though;   
He will not see me stopping here   
To watch his woods fill up with snow.  

My little horse must think it queer  
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.   

He gives his harness bells a shake   
To ask if there is some mistake.   
The only other sound’s the sweep   
Of easy wind and downy flake.   

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,   
But I have promises to keep,   
And miles to go before I sleep,   
And miles to go before I sleep.

Irony of Life: When we want/need something the most, many of us can afford it the least; and when we can afford it the most, we no longer want or need it.

When people ask where I grew up, I often say, “I farmed until I was 2.” That line usually gets a smile. I was about 2 when my family left the farm for a Northern town where my father and uncle bought a grocery store. It was a mining town in the middle of nowhere. And there was an abundance of excellent fishing lakes all around us. Probably my best memory of father-son outings while growing up was time spent on a lake.

After retirement, my father (Nick) still made regular trips to that town to enjoy the opportunity for good fishing. He would usually team up with his nephew Ed who also was retired. No more jobs. Children all grown up and gone. Just the two of them heading out to enjoy the lake and bring home some fish, preferably pickerel, for supper. (As traditional Ukrainians, they had no concept of the evening meal being called ‘dinner’).

I can visualize Nick and Ed floating peacefully on a favourite fishing spot and jigging for pickerel. Jigging. That’s where you shut off the engine, throw out the anchor, drop your hook into the water, jerk your line up a little bit every half-minute or so, and let it settle down again. All of this is done with the hope of attracting a fish. Those who are serious about fishing will have their own version of what is the best bait to put on the hook. It could be a piece of meat, a kernel of corn, or some other often secret ingredient that would likely not be shared with others for fear that they might catch your fish.

Usually, what is said on a fishing boat stays on the boat (something like going to Las Vegas). But Dad shared one conversation with me that has stuck in my memory. He and Ed were on a favourite lake in Ed’s boat. Enjoying the comfort of a glimmering sun, a warming breeze, and a gently rocking boat, Ed broke the silence and began to share his thoughts in the moment.

I don’t have a transcript of those words but will reconstruct what Dad passed on to me.

Always a soft spoken man, Ed wistfully said, “Nick, life doesn’t make sense. When my kids were young, all I had was a 12-foot aluminum boat, a 5-horsepower motor, and the cheapest fishing gear. And all too often, I was ‘too busy’ when my kids asked if we could go fishing.

Now, they’re all gone. I’m retired and have all the time in the world. And here we are in a 20-foot fiberglass cruiser, a powerful engine, and all the best equipment you can buy.”

My Dad was usually a man of few words. He looked at Ed, smiled, and nodded his head in agreement.

Two men alone in a beautiful new boat. Sharing the poignant reality of one of the ironies of life. When we want or need something the most, many of us can afford it the least; and when we can afford it the most, we no longer want or need it.