On being … sage advice in any language

By Ingrid Sapona

Apparently, the French translation of the word pessimistic is pessimiste. Simple, non? Even so, I was surprised when an Air France employee told me, in perfect English, that I shouldn’t be pessimistic. 

My sisters and I were in Paris and we were all flying home to different cities on the same day last week. To make things simple, we shared a cab to the airport. My flight was the last to leave and so I was at the airport more than six hours early. My suitcase was small and I did carry-on to France; I planned on doing the same on the way home. 

Well, the Air France folks were a bit more particular in Paris than they were here in Toronto. Together, my suitcase and tote weighed 13.4 kilos. Seems they only allow 12 kilos for carry-on. So, they said I had to check the suitcase. I was not happy about that for a number of reasons, including that my tote rested so nicely on my rolling suitcase and without it, I’d have to carry the tote all day. But more importantly, with so many Air France flights going out of that terminal, I thought the odds were high that a bag checked more than six hours in advance might go astray.

To check it, I had to exit from security to get it tagged. When I got to the person who was supposed to do this, I pled my case again. I emphasized that my flight was not for six hours and that I was concerned my suitcase would go missing in that time. The Air France gentleman looked at me and, as he attached the tag, he said, “It’ll be fine… don’t be pessimistic!” 

Next thing I knew, the bag was making its way down the conveyor belt. I realized that if the bag didn’t make it to Toronto at the same time as me, it really wasn’t a big deal. (I have clothes and stuff at home.) But the rest of the day — and especially while I waited at the baggage carousel in Toronto, all I could think of was that I wished I didn’t have to check the bag. It was a big plane and for about a half hour there was a steady stream of bags tumbling down the belt. Mine was not among them — but I’d say about half the plane was still waiting, so I was in good company. After a further half hour when no bags appeared, more bags finally started coming down the belt. I was relieved when mine appeared. Seems Mr. Air France was right… I should not have been pessimistic.

The comment struck me not just because I was impressed with his English. It hit a nerve because I am pessimistic by nature. I wish I weren’t. I try hard to counter-act my pessimism impulse. So, for example, when something works out better than I anticipated, I try to focus on it. I do this in hopes that next time my inner voice tells me things will not work out well, I can quickly remind myself of examples when things worked out. Indeed, on the same trip there were a number of “alls well that ends well” moments — things that seemed to go wrong but that ended up just fine. 

The best example was our visit to Notre Dame. Though it’s free to get into the cathedral, our time in Paris was limited so I booked us a “skip the line” tour. (We did this once at Edinburgh castle and it worked out great.) Well, the long and the short of it was the tour guide never showed up. I was so frustrated — not just because I had paid for the tour, but because the prospect of standing in line possibly for hours was not welcome. 

After waiting a sufficient time in hopes the guide would show, we headed over to the cathedral to join the line. En route I stopped a woman and asked her if she’d take a picture of the three of us. She was most obliging and when she handed my phone back, I asked how long the line was. She said it’s long, but it moves. So, into the queue we went.

It was one of those Disneyland snaking lines — I don’t know how many rows, but there were LOTS. As I turned the corner of the line for the second time someone standing behind the barricade looked at me and asked (again, in perfect English) if I wanted to go in. I chuckled and said, “Yes, of course, that’s why I’m in line”. He smiled and said, well, come this way. I thought he was joking. I said I was with my sisters and he asked how many. When I said “three”, he said that was fine. My sisters were a few paces ahead of me but I got their attention and then the gentleman opened the barrier enough for the three of us to slip in. 

I don’t know what prompted him to offer us to — in effect — skip the line. Could he read the frustration on my face and guess that we had been let down by the no-show tour guide? I doubt it. (I imagine we just looked like three tired, grey haired tourists.) Whatever the reason, I thanked him profusely as we headed in.

It’s funny, when such good fortune strikes I tend to attribute it to my guardian angel working overtime. I certainly did so that day at Notre Dame. Actually, I even did so as I pulled my suitcase off the belt in Toronto. I really have a strong belief in my guardian angel… maybe it’s because she works so hard to remind me — in different languages even — that I shouldn’t be so pessimistic.

©️2025 Ingrid Sapona

On being ... a good girl

By Ingrid Sapona

Some relationships and roles we have vis-à-vis others are immutable. For example, I’m the baby of the family. Doesn’t matter that I’m in my sixth decade — I will always be that and I’m treated as such in certain situations. But there are many relationships and roles we shape by our behaviour. For example, for most of my life in many relationships I’ve been seen as a good girl. As a child that usually meant doing as I was told. I didn’t find it hard, mind you, so why not? As I got older, being thought of as a good girl depended more on being studious and helpful. Again, as both these behaviours come pretty naturally to me, I’m pretty comfortable with that persona. 

But, there are times when being seen as a good girl is less than ideal. Recently, two very different situations brought this to mind. The first related to some volunteer work. I’m a relative newcomer to a volunteer committee. The committee holds a few events a year and various committee members volunteer to host each one. Sometime after the fall hosting assignments were set, the committee chair asked me to meet with her for a coffee. At that meeting she said the organization’s president suggested she ask me to co-host the event with her. 

I told her quite truthfully that of all the events, the one she’s working on is the least interesting to me. She smiled and said she understood, but she reiterated that she really needed my help. Knowing co-hosting was something I could do (though I really didn’t want to), ultimately I acquiesced. In consenting, I made it clear, however, that it’s not my cup of tea, but I would do it to help her out. (Read: I wanted to be a good girl.) 

At the event the organization president cornered me and said she hoped my co-hosting meant I’d consider joining the board. I told her quite plainly that I’m not interested in being on the board. She was taken aback by my response — clearly she thought she’d appeal to my inner good girl. Clearly offended, she huffed and said, “Well, I’m not going to beg”. My response was simply, “Thanks, I appreciate that”. She walked away and I could feel the good girl in me shudder, but grudgingly agreeing to join something isn’t particularly virtuous. 

In a further test of my good girl nature, someone from the same organization emailed me this week saying they understand I agreed to do X. I never agreed to any such thing. (No one had ever mentioned it to me, much less asked me to do it.) I simply responded that there must have been a misunderstanding as I’d not agreed to it and so someone else would have to be found. This time I didn’t even feel particularly bad for not going along — I just put my foot down.

Those little incidents were irksome, but nothing compared to a recent request from an elderly friend who asked me to help her navigate the U.S. health insurance maze. I was visiting her (I’ll call her Maggie) on a recent trip to the U.S. I love Maggie and in the past I’ve been happy to help her with things like her will and her home owners insurance. But I know nothing about the U.S. health insurance system. Other than being aware that it’s “open enrolment” time, which is why it came up, I’ve got no clue about the different coverage options or programs. Indeed, those of us living north of the border shake our head at all the ads and wonder how ordinary Americans (like Maggie) make sense of any of it.

I explained to Maggie that I can’t help because I’ve never even looked at such things and it’s very complicated. She insisted that there must be someplace I could call for help. She said that given my legal training, she was sure I could understand it all. I told her I didn’t think it was just a matter of making a call to get information. I explained that when my parents were alive my father looked after their health insurance and I never got involved. She was quite upset and we went round-and-round about it. 

All the drive home I felt terrible — like I had let her down. It means a lot to me that Maggie has faith in me and that she trusts me, but in this case, I think I was right to hold firm. I tried to take solace in the idea that making decisions that could prove to be detrimental to Maggie in the long run is worse than being of no help at the outset.

Anyway, though I’ve rationalized my behaviour in these different situations, the feeling of shedding my good girl status still niggles in the back of my mind. But, maybe it’s time to stop seeing my self as a good girl and instead embrace the notion of being a strong senior.

©️ 2025 Ingrid Sapona

On being ... a buzz in the air

By Ingrid Sapona 

I’m not much of a fan of professional sports. In college I loved going to football games and in high school I dreamt of being a hockey broadcaster. But for the past 30+ years, I’ve been rather down on professional sports. I’m bothered by the staggering sums the players are paid; the sky-high cost of tickets and branded paraphernalia; and the amount of taxpayer dollars spent on sports arenas and the like. 

But, having spent most of my life in cities (Buffalo and Toronto) with multiple professional sports teams, I’ve come to accept the ubiquity of conversations about the home team(s). Indeed, “How about those (fill in the team name)?” is actually a pretty handy conversation starter because it works whether the team is winning or losing!

Anyway — as you’ve probably guessed, this is top-of-mind this week because the Toronto Blue Jays are in the World Series. Though true baseball fans probably paid attention during the entire (162 game!!) season, most of the rest of us began paying attention during the playoffs. Indeed, when your town’s team is in the playoffs, there’s a kind of civic duty to care — if not for the team, then for all those who do care about them.

That said, I was caught off guard by the incredible buzz in the air here since the Jays made it into in the World Series. And by “here” I don’t just mean Toronto. As the only MLB team in Canada, the Jays are the nation’s team.

I’m amazed at how many human interest stories the CBC (Canadian Broadcasting Company) has found to report on related to the Jays. For example, the other day there was a piece about the guys who wrote the “OK Blue Jays” theme song. In 1982 the owner of the team wanted a song and he hired a couple of commercial jingle writers. The owner told the writers that he didn’t want to promise too much (the Club was only five years old at that point) and he told the writers they should just say they’re “OK”. Who’d have guessed?

The CBC also did a piece on what being a sports fan does to your heart rate during a game. The cardiologist featured in the piece called it “fanxiety”, the increase in heart rate, breathing, and blood pressure of fans who are emotionally invested in the outcome of the play. It all has to do with the increase in cortisol and adrenaline pumping through their bodies. The stress on the body is, apparently, similar to doing a strenuous or moderate workout. I guess that sort of explains the results of an informal poll I’ve taken of acquaintances this past week. I can’t tell you how many people admitted to me that they just can’t take the stress of watching the game. Instead, they find it best to just flip to the game every now and then to catch the score. (And that’s not just for games that take 18 innings!)

The good news is that for most fans, the changes to one’s heart rate and blood pressure won’t make a clinical difference. And, the cardiologist pointed out some benefits of cheering on a team that I’d not thought of: in addition to a spike in dopamine, a team win can bring you closer to your friends who also share the excitement.

Even so, I do wish folks would keep their enthusiasm somewhat in check. Yes, I remember the excitement when the Jays won back-to-back World Series in the early 1990s. But, I also remember the disappointment of Bills fans as they cheered their team through four Super Bowl losses (in a row) in the early 1990s. That said, I guess a true fan is better than me at enjoying the moment and better at taking comfort in the notion that there’s always next year.

With the Series down to a best of three series (at the time of writing this) and feeling stoked on others’ excitement, I realize it’s time to hop on the bandwagon. Besides, it’s nice to have something to rally around and cheer about these days. So:  Let’s go Blue Jays!

©️ 2025 Ingrid Sapona

On being ... mission driven

By Ingrid Sapona

A couple years ago there was a piece on CBS Sunday Morning about owls and the Global Owl Project. The story highlighted the work different folks are doing to preserve owl habitats and talked about the significance different cultures have historically placed on the enigmatic species.   

The managing director of the Global Owl Project, David H. Johnson, apparently got interested in owls when an eastern screech owl landed on his tent. He was 11-years-old at the time. As Johnson sees it, he didn’t pick owls, they picked him.

While all the information about owls was interesting, it was something Johnson said about life that really stuck with me. He said,“There are two important days in your life: the day you’re born and the day you find out why. I’m here to help owls and the conservation of the planet and people I care about.” I was so struck by what Johnson said, I jotted it down because I knew it would be something I’d want to return to in an On being…

When I first heard Johnson’s comment, I admit to being jealous about the clarity he feels about his purpose on earth. Because the CBS piece wasn’t about Johnson’s life journey, it didn’t talk about how straight a path his life took from that owl landing on his tent to his work with the Global Owl Project. Curious, I looked him up. Based on what I found on Research Gate, it seems he’s been working on owl-related stuff since at least 1991. Looking at the list of research he’s been involved with, there’s no denying that he has been on that mission for most of his life.

The day I was born I’m sure about… (At least that’s what a birth certificate is for.) But, “the day you find out why” is a whole other matter. There have been moments in my life when I’ve felt like I helped with something or did something that mattered a bit. But those times are rather fleeting and I’d be hard pressed to provide even one example. 

The question of what my purpose on earth is hasn’t preoccupied me, but I have thought about it from time-to-time. In particular, I’ve wondered whether life is more fulfilling if you find a mission or specific purpose. Given that I’ve not figured out the “why I was born” thing, I guess I’m hoping that fulfillment doesn’t depend on figuring it out. Or maybe the key is in realizing that a meaningful mission doesn’t necessarily involve making the planet better (as Johnson’s does). 

In the two years since CBS aired that piece, I’ve made some personal progress in that I’m no longer jealous of people who have great clarity about their reason for being. I think it’s wonderful if you figure it out, but if you don’t, that doesn’t mean your life is one of quiet desperation, as Thoreau posited. Indeed, despite no mission, I feel content and fulfilled. I’m satisfied I’ve made the most of opportunities that have come my way (like being able to share my thoughts through On being…), that I help others as I’m able to, and that I do my best not to do harm to the planet. Though I may yet have an “owl on my tent” moment of clarity of purpose, I am fine if I don’t.

What about you? Do you feel your life has been mission-driven? If so, how and when did you figure it out? Did some owl-like omen happen in your life to guide your purpose? Or do you feel a mission isn’t necessary to give life meaning? 

©️2025 Ingrid Sapona

On being ... (un)wanted

By Ingrid Sapona

I’m not a hoarder but I do tend to hang on to things longer than some people might. But, when a decluttering wave hits, I do my best to ride it. This past spring a decent size clean-out wave hit me. It wasn’t monumental (the kind of thing you might do if you’re moving or downsizing), but it was different from the standard purge because there were some items that I went out of my way to donate to groups I thought would put them to good use. In other words, it wasn’t a matter of just dropping stuff off at Goodwill. 

Taking the time to consider who might need/want certain items helps motivate me to get rid of things. It also helps allay my concerns about simply adding to land fill in some poor country. So, for example, when I switched to an induction cooktop and none of my pots worked on the new stove, I gave my old pots to a charity that worked with refugee families. I liked the idea that the three big boxes of pots might have ended up helping a few families resettle. (As an aside, apparently the practice of donating specific types of used items to particular charity-run shops is standard practice in Scotland. In Edinburgh there are charity-run shops that have interesting specialties, for example, one that deals only in used furniture; another that carries used CDs, DVDs, and records; and one that specializes in second-hand wedding gowns!)

Anyway, I hadn’t really thought about my spring clean out until this week. I’m going away for a few weeks in November and I was thinking about the clothes I might take and how to optimize my packing. For half the trip I’ll be with a group and so I feel I need a bit more variety in my wardrobe than what I’d wear when traveling on my own. My plan is to vary my look by using scarves and necklaces to dress up different tops. With that in mind, I went through my closet with a view toward picking out some tops that I thought would go well with the accessories I have. The specific necklaces I had in mind were Mom’s — she never felt dressed unless she had a necklace on. 

Then I went to the drawer where I keep my scarves and jewelry. When I opened it, my heart sank as I realized that I had given away pretty much all of the costume jewelry. The void in the drawer where the necklaces sat untouched for years stung as I remembered feeling torn about giving them away. But, it seemed like the right thing to do at the time, as Mom passed away more than five years ago and I hadn’t worn any of it. I took some solace from the fact that I had taken them to a place that provides clothing and accessories for women who need a work wardrobe. 

As silly as it sounds, I was upset for a good few days that my accessorizing plan was foiled. Yes, I realized that some in my predicament would just see it as a great excuse to go buy some new things. But I’m not much of a shopper and I know that if I bought things I wouldn’t normally wear, eventually I’d end up giving them away too. I chuckled that perhaps it’s just some perverse rule of the universe that dictates that as soon as you get rid of something you’ve kept for a LONG time — but not used for an even LONGER time — you’ll wish you still had it. That’s certainly how it felt.

But, in thinking more about it, I realize that maybe the lesson in this little incident is that the longer you hold onto stuff, the more attached you are to it, regardless of whether you ever use it. And so, maybe the best way of avoiding such remorse is to more routinely give away (recycle) things you don’t use.

 ©️ 2025 Ingrid Sapona

On being ... complimentary

By Ingrid Sapona

When I first started writing On being … I often found that once a topic came into my head for a column, I suddenly noticed it in all sorts of contexts. Of course, this isn’t unusual — it’s a type of cognitive bias related to selective attention. But still, I’m often surprised when it happens, as it did the past couple weeks when I considered a column on compliments.

So, first the story that made me think about writing this. It came to mind when one of the senior-most guys (I’ll call him Ted) at the lawn bowling club offered a compliment to someone at the end of a game. When I joined Ted was one of the folks who provided lessons to new bowlers. In our first lesson he made sure to tell us that he’s taken a number of lawn bowling coaching courses. The upshot of that is that he feels rather free to offer coaching advice — solicited and unsolicited — to those he’s playing with. He just can’t help himself. I’ve seen more than a few folks roll their eyes at Ted’s unsolicited help.

On a recent morning, Ted homed in on this one woman’s technique (I’ll call her Sue). He told her she was dropping her bowls rather than rolling them smoothly. During the course of the game, he made the same comment to her three or four times. Sue, an experienced bowler, took Ted’s running commentary in stride. She smiled and simply continued playing, making many impressive shots. Sue’s team won and during the end-of-the-game handshake, Ted went out of his way to compliment her. Or at least, he tried to. He said she made some fantastic shots “even though she kept dropping” her bowls. Ugh, I thought … I guess Ted doesn’t get that modifying praise with a negative kind of negates the compliment.

I’m sure Ted means well. Indeed, I’ve noticed he sometimes catches himself when he realizes others think he’s being overly intense or critical. And I think members are accepting of his quirks and critiques because it’s obvious he cares about the club and the game. But driving home, all I could think was that Ted could sure use some coaching in how to give a compliment!

A couple days after hearing Ted’s rather lame compliment, I saw a story by CBS’s Steve Hartman about a 9-year-old who knows how to give a compliment. Ethan Wargo of Sycamore, Illinois, has a stand where he gives out compliments to anyone who stops by. Ethan got the idea when he noticed that a character in a Mad Dog comic book set up an insult stand (it looks like Lucy’s psychiatric advice stand in Peanuts). He didn’t think an insult stand was a very nice idea but it inspired him to set up a compliment stand instead.

After Ethan’s Dad mentioned the stand on social media, people started coming by. Unlike Lucy, he doesn’t charge for his compliments — he just finds something nice to say to everyone who comes by. While Ethan’s folks were surprised when he came up with the idea, they’ve been even more surprised by the strong reactions people have had to the compliments. As for Ethan’s take on why people stop for a compliment is movingly straightforward: “it’s just heartwarming to them”, he says. So true…  and therein lies the magic of a real compliment.

Of course, compliments aren’t only flowing in Sycamore, Illinois these days. It would be hard not to notice the piles of compliments Trump’s cabinet have shovelled Trump’s way these many months. Mind you, I’ve yet to meet anyone who has seen footage of those cabinet meetings who doesn’t see them as what they are — mere shows of sycophancy.

For a two-minute master class in how to give a compliment, watch Ethan in action in Hartman’s report. I think you’ll agree that it’s not just what you say — it’s how unhesitatingly positive and loving you are that ensures the compliment recipient feels your respect, admiration, and affection. 

©️2025 Ingrid Sapona

On being ... touched

By Ingrid Sapona

I read two F. Scott Fitzgerald short stories this week. Why? Because my 8th grade social studies teacher (I’ll call him Mr. P) talked about a quote from a Fitzgerald short story that inspired him. (I couldn’t remember the exact title, so looking for the quote I ended up reading a couple stories.) The quote came up in a Zoom call that one of my classmates set up in honour of Mr. P’s 80th birthday. 

I’ve kept in touch with a few of my high school classmates on a one-on-one basis. Recently I emailed three of them asking for their thoughts on something and someone suggested we do a Zoom call to discuss it. During that call we started reminiscing about teachers and classmates we’ve lost touch with these (gasp) 45+ years. Turns out each of us had particularly fond memories of Mr. P and of a play we wrote in that class.

The classmate who set up the Zoom decided to look up Mr. P. She found his email address and contacted him. When she learned his birthday was coming up, she asked him if he’d be ok if she set up a Zoom call for his birthday. He was delighted and so she set it up, inviting 10 of us who remembered Mr. P’s class and the play.

The call started out as you’d expect when you run into folks you’ve not seen for years. Mr. P was interested in hearing what we went on to do with our lives. Of course, there was some ribbing about various professions, though we’ve all had successful careers. And, as happens at all reunions, there was some gossip about the school and our classmates.

The conversation soon turned to what Mr. P meant to us. Some reflected very specifically on the impact the class had on their life. One, for example, who has done some acting and theatre work, said our little 8th grade play sparked her life-long interest in acting. Another admitted she too felt the acting bug as a result of the play, but her parents persuaded her not to pursue it. She had no regrets about her career choice, however, because she found a way to put acting skills to use in her professional life. A lovely realization, I’d say.

One woman asked Mr. P — quite earnestly — whether we spent the entire year working on the play, as that was her recollection. Mr. P laughed and assured us the play wasn’t the only thing we did that year — it was simply the culmination of a unit about the Gilded Age. Though embarrassed that her memory of the class was rather skewed, she said Mr. P’s class was the first time she felt smart and good about herself. Not a bad legacy…

As for me, my fondness for the class is demonstrated by the fact that the play is one of the few things from high school that I kept a copy of. Not only that, a few years ago I scanned it for posterity. Beyond that, what I admired about Mr. P was his creativity and enthusiasm. What I didn’t realize until I reflected on that call the past few days was the most powerful thing I took away from Mr. P: the belief that if you share yourself and your interests genuinely, it’s possible to spark others’ desire to learn and think.

Toward the end of the call Mr. P reflected a bit on his approach to teaching — and to life. He kind of summed it up saying that he was always guided by a quote from F. Scott Fitzgerald’s short story, The Favorite Boy. Then, with all the charm and panache he mesmerized us with so many years ago, he recited — from memory — this quote:

“It isn’t given to us to know those rare moments when people are wide open and the lightest touch can wither or heal. A moment too late and we can never reach them any more in this world…”.

I suspect my classmates on last week’s call would agree that we were wide open in 8th grade and very lucky to have had Mr. P, as his light touch inspired our learning and our lives.

©️2025 Ingrid Sapona

On being … a reminder about perspective

By Ingrid Sapona 

I took up lawn bowling this summer. Besides being fun, it’s reminded me of a few life lessons I hadn’t focused on in a long time. 

Lawn bowling is played on a grass field that’s divided into “rinks” that are 14 feet wide by about 120 feet long. The balls (known as bowls) weigh 2-3 pounds and are about the size of a large grapefruit. They’re round, but they have a “bias”, which means they’re slightly weighted toward one side. As a result, when you roll a bowl, it curves a bit. The other key piece of equipment is a little white marker ball called the Jack; it’s about the size of a billiard ball, but a bit heavier. At the start of each end of play, a player rolls the Jack to the far end of the rink. The object of the game is basically for your team to end up with more bowls closer to the Jack than your opponents’ bowls. 

The skipper of each team stands at the far end, near the Jack. Teams take turns rolling their bowls. Before each roll, your skipper tells you whether they’d like you to aim for the Jack or try to knock out an opponent’s bowl. After you roll, your skipper signals how far your bowl is from the Jack. This information is meant to help you gauge how hard to roll your next bowl. If your previous bowl ended up in front of the Jack, you didn’t give it enough oomph and if it’s way behind, you should go easier on the next one. After each team has rolled all their bowls, the score for the end is determined. Games vary in length from 10-12 ends. 

When I started playing, I found it odd that after I bowled, my skipper signaled to me where my bowl ended up in relation to the Jack. My distance vision is good and unless there’s a bowl that’s directly in front of the Jack, I can see where my bowl ended up in relation to the Jack and to other bowls near by. Even odder was that when my skipper signaled the distance, I often couldn’t believe what they were saying versus what it looked like to me. I wondered if they were exaggerating the distance because I’m new. Maybe they thought I’d work harder at honing my bowling if they said my bowls were more off than I thought they were. 

Curious, I started paying closer attention to other bowlers’ shots and the distance the skippers signaled to them. Most of the time, regardless of who bowled, the skippers’ signals seemed way off from what it looked like to me from the far end of the rink. That made me feel better about my own bowling, but it had me wondering about my depth perception.

The skippers bowl last. When it’s their turn, those who have bowled swap places with the skippers. This provides an up-close opportunity to see where the bowls are in relation to the Jack and to each other. I’m usually quite surprised about which bowl is closest to the Jack – and how ones I’d swear are just a foot or so apart are actually not that close to each other. 

I found it so disconcerting that my perception of where the bowls land could be so off, I began asking fellow players how different arrays of bowls looked to them. I was reassured when I found that, from the vantage of 120 feet out, most of us agreed about the placement of the bowls vis-à-vis each other. That said, everyone is also quick to point out that things can look very different from far away than they might look when you get up close. (I guess that’s why the skippers stand at the Jack end – so they have a better view of the actual positioning of the array.) And, I’ve also noticed it that even when a group of bowlers are standing right over the Jack, there may still be disagreement about which bowl is closest. Thankfully, in those cases, there’s a straightforward way to settle the matter: a neutral arbiter – a tape measure! 

Now when I look down the field to get a sense of what’s what, I remind myself that what one sees is very much dependent on where you’re standing. And, before coming to a conclusion, you should take a closer look. While these insights clearly are applicable to lawn bowling, I kind of think they have a wider application … especially during these turbulent times. 

© 2025 Ingrid Sapona