Suzy and I moved into a new neighbourhood of central Ottawa in late 2009. We only knew one couple on the street, but we were excited to settle in and make new friends. It didn’t take long, and now some of our closest friends are among our newest. That’s pretty amazing in this day and age. We’re happy here in our new home – which makes it easier now to reflect on the six weeks we spent with Suzy’s parents between when we sold our old house and when we took possession of the new one.

I love my in-laws. They’ve always welcomed me like I’m their own son. George is a terrific guy, and Freda and I are very close. On several occasions over the years since Suzy and I married in 1999, Freda has put her arm around me and told me very seriously that she’d like to remain my friend if Suzy and I ever get a divorce. I can think of no more flattering a tribute – even if it makes me wonder. But after six weeks of sleeping on an air mattress in their dining room, by the time we left the in-laws’ for our new place, they were glad to see the tail end of us.

Six weeks with my wife’s parents. Yep. And it was only as we approached the sunset of that long autumn stay that I realized that Freda and I had been using the same toothbrush – the whole time.

Apparently, the reaction to this kind of sharing is not universal. By talking about this, I have discovered that several people I thought I knew well always share a toothbrush with their spouse. One couple even keeps a “toothbrush jar” with several in it that they randomly grab when the need arises. This also conveniently services surprise overnight guests. You never know whose you’re gonna get.

What awesome randomness! Don’t you just wonder: If you have a “toothbrush jar,” what does it indicate about your other choices and preferences? Do people who share a toothbrush also do joint chequing? Is the inverse true? What else do they share?

It just goes to show that we take a lot at face value in our society. The streets in my new neighbourhood are uniformly straight; the walkways are all tidily shoveled. But you really only have to scratch the surface (or notice what’s on the back of the sink) to discover fascinating differences that can make life more interesting and rich.

So here’s some advice I’d like to share: 1) Tonight, brush your teeth with your non-dominant hand. Trying new things is good for your brain. 2) The next time you’re in Shoppers, go all crazy and buy several toothbrushes that are the same colour. Imagine what this simple action will do for your marriage. Oh, and toss the dental floss. More on that tomorrow.

Alison looked nervous, but there was little I could do about it. She had picked the swarthy French guy as her buddy, so fixing up her hoses wasn’t my responsibility. By that point we were at the water’s edge. Still, I just couldn’t resist clipping her secondary air supply properly, so I just reached over and did it. She turned and looked at me, then swung around to the French guy and said, “Uh, ‘scuse me, I’m switching buddies.”

It was only my fourth scuba dive, and my second time in the clear aquamarine waters of the Red Sea at Aqaba. I couldn’t wait to revisit the colourful corals and experience the feeling of flight in schools of darting clown fish (a la Nemo). As we walked backwards on the sandy bottom in our gear and flippers deeper into the water, Alison said she had taken the plunge over 200 times. She was an advanced diver. This didn’t surprise me; the brilliant photos on her Web site and her stints with National Geographic were a testament to a lifetime of adventure as a skilled travel photographer. So here we were on the same press tour in Jordan, getting deeper. It was day 3 of our week-long tour, and I had been impressed by Alison’s calm and warm personality. She had spent a few months with the Dalai Lama, and it showed. This made her nervousness about this dive (and the fact that she had suddenly picked me as her dive buddy) even more peculiar.

The water was at our waists. We were side by side. She turned to me with a look of urgency in her sharp blue eyes.

“I had a bad accident in Laos a couple of years ago, and I’m not sure how my body will cope with this dive. Can you keep an eye on me? My doctor told me not to do this. I could hemorrhage.”

“Ah, OK. Sure,” I said, “how bad was it?”

We were now floating.

“Well, pretty bad. My heart and lungs were ripped out and now my organs are held together by a mesh bag.”

“Oh.”

Then we were under. We descended to about 100′ – the maximum depth for a recreational dive. Every few metres we exchanged a glance and a thumbs up. I kept expecting to see blood seep from her ears. Hello, sharks!

The dive was beautiful and remarkable only for its sights, not its tragedy. Alison emerged intact and relieved. She’s a good buddy. Until I found a published account of her accident on-line today, I didn’t know just how serious her accident really was. She wasn’t kidding, and now I can understand why she was nervous.

>> Check out the incredible photo collection of Photo Journalist Alison Wright.

My very capable executive assistant Andrea told me today that the natural state of ripe oranges is Green. “So why are they called ‘oranges?” I asked. She quite calmly and confidently asserted that oranges are called that because of the colour inside, not because of the skin. She added pointedly that she has always known this. She, 33. Me, ten years older and clearly misinformed. Then, squeezing more out of this advantage, she said, “And most people know this.” Apparently, the skin of an orange is only orange because of a chemical dye used to make it attractive for sale. She pulled it up in wikipedia. Pointed to it. Shattered my fragile sense of reality. Silly me; all these years I thought oranges were, well, Orange.

I have to say that I was shaken by this today. I mean, I know that “from concentrate” means “including the peel and the seeds in your morning beverage too” (something my wise wife has drilled into me in 11 years of marriage), but the notion that oranges are green — THAT shook me today, to the pulp.

Could it be true that something so obvious could be false? How could it be that all these years I’ve thought oranges were orange, that they would hang all cheery and plump and warm and inviting from branches — that people with sun-kissed skin would meander calmly through rows of trees and reach up to gently twist these little ripened orbs to place them lovingly into baskets destined for tissue-stuffed boxes  to be sent to my local Loblaws.

Don’t take this away from me, Andrea. I have to look into this some more.

It’s been a year since my last post – mostly because I’ve been all over the map promoting energy and environmental action. Something’s been nagging at me about this, and it’s only occurred to me lately what it is: People in my “industry” seem to have forgotten why we’re doing this. The sense of urgency that turned a fledgling gaggle of energy and environmental first adopters into a global industry of social entrepreneurs has lost its way. Lately, environmental and energy conservation action is “just business.”

This scares the crap out of me. Some days I want to flee to Walden and sharpen pencils by the wood stove. Don’t get me wrong. I’m no negative, anti-corporate crusader. Nope. I’m quite happy to follow in the wide wake of folks like Adam Werbach (former executive director of Sierra Club) who dared to declare environmentalism dead and then got into bed with WalMart.

The fact is, we need stuff like clever ads, plain language writing to get people to open their eyes. Simple things. Oh, and yes, giant retail partners. This is especially true now as traditional institutions and governments seem reluctant (in Canada) or unable (in DC) to wield policy tools to bring about change. Despite a growing sense of panic, I still believe that the future rests in the hands of nimble collaborative projects made up of civil society organizations like onechange.org, marketing firms, local governments and corporate partners. But if we can’t find ways to make these partnerships work, and fast, we’re all screwed.

So look yourself in the mirror and say these things a few times, out loud: We have a serious problem. Our survival as a species is at stake.

Do you really believe it?

My mother wasn’t allowed to play cards as a teenager. Snakes and Ladders had evil connotations (the game’s called Chutes and Ladders these days). Heck, even thinking about sex was considered a mortal sin in Church of Christ PEI — something that was hard for a horny Island teenage boy to handle. There were rules. The world was all explained.

So I should have known better than to mess with the spirits. This week, my smudge went rogue.

An Aboriginal colleague at work recently smudged our office. She is studying with elders the age-old tradition of burning dried buffalo sage to rid a space of negative energy and old trapped spirits. Apparently, my space in the office was a hot spot. So was Dan’s. You can tell by how much smoke comes from the tightly wound bundle of dried sage as it’s carried from room to room.

So I decided to bring the ritual home, to smudge our new house.

Suzy had taken the kids skiing last Sunday, so I had the house to myself for a few hours. I picked up a bunch of smudge sage at the local holistic bookshop and lit it on the stove. As instructed, I carried it around in a bowl — my meditation “singing” bowl, in fact (yes, I have one). There was a lot of smoke. So much, in fact, that I was worried that the smoke detector would go off. So I stamped out the smudge.

That night I awoke at about 3AM to the sound of people running up and down the stairs. Then whining and moaning sounds, and children crying. I opened my eyes and saw a dark shape swirling erratically around the ceiling of my room. A moment after I noticed it, the shape came straight at me and swooshed at my head like it was trying to fly up my nose. Then it was gone. And the wailing and running sounds stopped.

I jumped out of bed, thinking that Simon or Jasper had fallen down the stairs. But they were asleep in their beds. And even Puddy the cat was undisturbed, asleep.

It took me hours to get back to sleep.

The next night, Simon awoke at about the same time in the night, screaming. When Suzy ran to him, he went right back to sleep.

Then, last night, Jasper was unable to get to sleep because he saw “visions” in his room.

Lordy.

Suzy says it’s all coincidence. I’m not so sure. My colleague at work says she checked with her elders; they’d heard of this before. There was something here, in this space, and I had almost let it go. Apparently I shouldn’t have snuffed out the smudge.

So, after school, Simon and I taped up the smoke detectors, and he walked through the house holding my little metal singing meditation bowl with a dried bunch of buffalo sage smoldering in it. We walked in circles in each room and gave thanks for what we have, for who we are, and for those who came before. He loved it. As I watched him, I remembered all those Sundays I’d sipped a bit of wine and eaten a morsel of cracker contemplating the “blood and body of Christ.”

Ritual is important. Belief is subjective. The thing is: I saw something flying around my room the other night.

We’ll see how things go tonight. So far, Suzy’s the only one who hasn’t woken up screaming since the smudge.

I love my wife, but I find it ironic that she may be closer to those in my past whose worldview held that there was evil in an ace.