Obama and the Fly

It never ceases to amaze me, the kinds of things that the media determines as newsworthy. I take for granted the news delivered in the daily paper or on the evening newscast until they inevitably turn their attention to some inane story. Take Obama and the fly for instance.

They said he was odd. Why? Because he killed a fly. I killed a fly. I kill them all the time. In fact, I kill mosquitoes, shadflies, wasps, spiders and ants. I probably slaughtered more than 100 of these annoying little beasts over the weekend alone. CBC didn't come to cover the story. So far as I know, PETA is completely unaware of my killing spree and I fully expect to get away without any fines or, worse, incarceration.

It's a reflex, I figure. A creepy-crawlie catches my attention and I turn into a murderous predator. It's what we do. We swat stuff. I would argue that most living beings swat stuff. Horses swat flies. In fact, they stand together face to ass to help each other out with the swatting. I've had cats that kill flies as they bounce mindlessly against the window in an effort to escape to the outdoors. We swat flies. That's what we do.

I draw the line at bees unless someone is in peril due to an allergy. With all the attention given to the value of a bee, I figure it's my moral responsibility to try and keep as many of them alive as possible. They say that we can't live without bees and there has been a lot of press about their dwindling numbers so I generally try to help out by curbing my swatting habit to help postpone the end of the world.

Can you imagine what would have happened if Obama killed a bee?

On Regrets

Maybe it's the fact that my 40th birthday is fast approaching, or maybe it's the series of events that have unfolded over the past two years that have prompted me to spend hours of my time in quiet introspection. Normally a healthy practice towards achieving self-awareness, over time it has become a slug fest of sorts where I ultimately end up picking at the scabs of my regrets.

At one level, I recognize the futility of regret but at another level I secretly wonder about the lessons that hide themselves in the messiness of my bad choices. "Everything happens for a reason," seems like a license to dig through my unfortunate failures in a desperate hunt for meaning.

My son is on a crash-course and I feel absolutely helpless as I witness one bad decision after another. My heart breaks as I calculate this growing number while he works towards his own long list of regrets. How do you explain to someone so young that he is changing the course of his life with each choice he makes? How do you convince someone that as they age, the things that seemed important in high school fade into the shadows of new goals and responsibilities? Things that seem important today won't even register as an afterthought as he navigates his way through adulthood.

I attended a session years ago and afterwards I wrote letters to the important people in my life as a way of making peace with some of my old regrets. It seems now like such a simple task, but it essentially erased any guilt I was feeling about old decisions and behaviours. It gave me the absolution I was seeking and expunged those old regrets so I could free up energy to build better relationships with the people I love. It released me.

My son, I believe, will need to search for his own panacea for peace. Maybe a letter, maybe not. First, I suppose, he needs to feel regretful and I am not certain that he has arrived at that place. I think to get there, he first needs to feel the results of his many actions and how they have limited him from achieving what is most important. Only then will he begin to dig through the aftermath in search for meaning. The best I can do for now, is to hope that when that time comes, he finds what he is looking for.