I still wonder about a memory that goes back to the first year Linda and I were married. The instant I woke that sunny Saturday morning, I was conscious of a thought that would shape my life to the present time. The thought was “stop living tentatively,” and seemed to have been deposited on a shelf at eye level, where I would be certain to see it. The experience was brief but so vivid I wondered if an angel might have swooped down and bequeathed it to me. I’ve grappled with the memory frequently, hoping to understand and apply it. When I attained an important life milestone last month, I decided to look back over the years with one question. Did the “message” have a significant impact on my objectives, decisions and actions? On my life?
I recall reading “The Shipping News,” by Annie Proulx at that time. At one point a minor character, Cousin Nolan, is in an institution. Poorly educated, he is in his sunset years, keenly aware he really hasn’t accomplished anything he deems worthwhile. “I always knowed I was meant for something important,” he says, “but I didn’t know how to begin. I never had no luck.” Although I was young and possessed little sense of direction, I considered this outcome as disastrous as having a doctor tell me I had cancer. I wanted to do whatever was required to dodge such a fate.
Like Cousin Nolan, I didn’t know where to begin, but when I was asked to sponsor an inmate at Oakalla Prison (still functioning then), curiosity compelled me to agree. I was in a group of a dozen men. A burly unsmiling guard carrying a large key opened a thick metal door. When it clanged shut behind us with an ominous finality, I actually wondered if we’d be permitted to leave. Seeing the listless, grey clad men confined to their barred cells, it was here I began to understand that just as an individual can be confined by steel bars, my life could be constricted by my thinking. It was a realization I took into life, and with time it matured.
Some years later an American company with deep pockets announced it would construct a gas fired power plant (SE2) in Sumas, just across the border from Abbotsford where Linda and I lived at the time. Environmentalists warned us the plant would shower dangerous levels of polluted air on our city. We were deeply concerned but knew nothing about combating such a threat. “We’ll have to leave this to the politicians and lawyers,” Linda suggested. “We wouldn’t know where to begin.” I agreed.
Apparently the politicians and lawyers did not comprehend the potential health implications of this venture. Initially the scheme’s promoters were welcome in the mayor’s office. Because the plant would need to obtain power from the grid on our side of the border, they would require support from local authorities. When the National Energy Board (NEB) invited applications for intervenor status, a few disturbed citizens found the courage to apply. The power brokers of our community sat on their hands, seemingly not knowing how to deal with this threat.
Now Linda had a change of heart. “There aren’t enough intervenors to impress the NEB,” she said. “We will have to get involved.” I’ve learned that when Linda says “we” in such cases, she means I will have to enter the fray, albeit with her full backing. Several months later, I and other citizens stood before the NEB with quaking limbs, urging them to quash the project. Some unbelieving individuals were convinced our cause was hopeless and wrote letters to local papers claiming, “You can’t win against the Yankees. Give it up!” In time more people became enboldened and several hundred applied to be intervenors. We developed the SE2 Action Group and initiated a letter campaign to the NEB. In spite of the naysayers, we prevailed and the NEB ruled in our favour.
Since those early years, Linda and I have partnered a number of times with others in seemingly hopeless endeavours. When we celebrated my 80th birthday last month, I looked back and realized that although I often trembled, I have sought to not live tentatively.