The Plan

I am a planner. I can’t help it. It doesn’t matter whether this preference comes from nature – tendencies hard-wired into my genetic makeup – or nurture – mechanisms developed to help me cope or compensate for my environment – I am happiest when I have had a chance to evaluate the situation in front of me, develop a plan, and implement it according to schedule.

Life doesn’t work this way. For many years, I struggled with the trauma of failed plans, each setback throwing me off balance with all the attendant anxiety, depression and frustration because my plan did not work. One day, while skimming through a magazine in some waiting room or other, I came across an ad. I don’t even remember what the product was, but in the background there was a wall with graffiti on it: Life is what happens while you are making other plans.

This was a pivotal moment in my life. It wasn’t a novel concept. The statement was familiar. But for whatever reasons, this time it resonated. I understood not just with my head but with my heart. The statement is now one of my mantras. I still plan. In fact, the more chaotic the situation, the more essential the plan. But I have let go of my expectations about what the plan needs to be like and that once in place it will work. If I have a plan, I can find the flexibility and adaptability to deal whatever comes up. Facing the unexpected without any clear idea about how to proceed, however, can still plunge me into paralysis.

Our move from Fort McMurray to Victoria in December 2003 had to be planned, organized and implemented in six weeks. I realized very early on that if I gave any thought to what was going to happen when we arrived in Victoria, I would be completely overwhelmed. So the plan was modified to concentrate solely on the decisions necessary to get us out of Fort McMurray. Two days before we were due to leave, I still had no idea where we would be staying once we got to the Island. I trusted that life would happen, that something would work out, and it did.

We had eight weeks to organize ourselves for the move to Doha. I was initially very confident I could do this. We could just follow the same plan as before. Not so. We were settled in Fort McMurray, our lives well organized. And the change was straightforward – pack up your life in one location and re-establish it in another.

I quickly came to understand that the process of moving to Doha was going to be very different. The plan was simple – clean and organize the house, list and sell it, dispose of or store all our stuff, and get on a plane. However, my house was not settled, my life not well-organized, and the change not straightforward. Five or six years’ worth of procrastination dealing with the house had left it looking like a disastrous before picture on one of those home organization shows. Our social life had suffered because of my shame over the condition of my home. And the decisions were more complex. What was life going to be like in Doha? What do we do about our stuff? Was it worth keeping? Did we want to take it with us? Were we prepared to spend money storing it? How much would that cost? It quickly became apparent that the plan was not going to work. There was not enough time.

A large part of our excitement over this new adventure comes from the knowledge that we have chosen to walk into a very different environment, into unfamiliar territory. I gradually came to understand I would have to let go of all my tendencies to transplant my life over there. I would have to let go of my attachments to my things, and trust that I can have a good life without my favourite measuring cup, cleaning product, reading lamp, or television channel. If I looked at this as an opportunity to establish a new life – physically, mentally, emotionally, materially, socially – what doors would then open?

So the plan for now is to let go of the plan. While the expensive choice, we are keeping the house and leaving our things behind for now so we can enjoy the transition and our remaining time with friends and family before we go.

Starting out

This is Sugie. Swimming with her in Jamaica was one of the few – the very, very few – highlights of the first cruise that Michael and I took a couple of years ago.

We ended up sharing the ship with the University of Tampa Bay spring break party and I didn’t get very much sleep for the entire week. Michael will tell you I am not a lot of fun to be around when I am tired or hungry, so he wasn’t having the best of times either. We were on Carnival – the fun ships – which we have most clearly determined is not our preferred cruise line. The food was very basic. Smoking was allowed in the bar in the atrium, so permeated the common spaces. Loud music blasted from speakers around the large tub euphemistically called the pool. All in all, not the experience we were looking for. So the field trips became a necessary distraction.

We invested the time to visit Chichen Itza. It was remarkable to be wandering around a site that had been used for millenia and learn how the temples were constructed and oriented to act as calendars. By the time the guided portion of the tour was over, we only had about 30 minutes to roam freely. I had wanted to climb the temple, but recognized I would need more time. The temperature was about 35C and while our Mayan guide, fully dressed in a tropical suit, had completely dry skin as he stood in the sun telling us about the ruins, I, poorly dressed for the heat, was standing in the shade completely drenched with perspiration (shades of things to come in Doha!!). To attempt the climb without suitable allowance for rest on the ascent and descent would have been foolish. So Michael climbed it for us both, while I waited for him struggling with my disappointment.

Swimming with the sting rays off Grand Cayman was next. After taking a boat ride a fair distance from shore, you arrive at this sand bar where you can stand only waist deep in the ocean. Here, fishermen have cleaned their catches for generations, and here the sting rays, scavengers of the ocean, have come for the feast, hoovering the offal off the ocean floor just like vacuum cleaners, flying placidly amongst the horde of tourists, our only concern not stepping on the stingers at the end of their tails. Our guide captures one and glides its underskin along our back – soft, silky, warm. Topside, the skin is roughened, like fine sandpaper.

But the best was Sugie. And I very nearly missed her. I was tired. The two other excursions, while interesting, each carried their disappointments, and I didn't want another one. But I went. And yes, the dolphins are captive, and trained to perform. And yes, we did not get to freely interact with her. And yes, I had to wear a flotation vest, when at the best of times these days I float like a cork in salt water. But to be in the lagoon beside such a creature and recognize her intelligence and acknowledge there is more to the world than you have imagined was a lifetime experience and helped put everything else into perspective.

It is this experience that gives me the strength for what comes next. Without the cruise - the sleeplessness, the disappointments, the heat, the crankiness - there was no Sugie. Finding joy in the midst of circumstances and in spite of myself helped me find the courage to view my life differently.

The most remarkable thing about the decisions that Michael and I have made over the past few months is how liberating our mid-life crisis has been. We wanted to find something that would challenge us. We wanted to try something different. We wanted to focus on some of those things we always said we wanted to do, but never did. We wanted to expand our horizons. We decided to step off the edge of the cliff (hence the title of this blog), secure only in the knowledge that we will be holding hands whatever what happens next ... floating up, falling down, or, as Indiana Jones discovered in the Last Crusade, finding ourselves on a whole new path.

What an adventure ...