In my 68 years on this planet, from the time of her birth, the most meaningful relationship in my life was the one I shared with my daughter, Megan, who saw something in me, a kindness of spirit and a gentleness of soul that previous to her birth on Saturday, March 26th 1977 was unplumbed, a capacity for love that remains in me still today, as will always be the case.
Megan was a breach birth, undecided if she wanted to make her entrance into the world. At Burnaby General Hospital, late on that Saturday night, Cathy under anaesthetic, forceps brought my daughter through the birth canal into the warmth of the operating room. After the umbilical cord had been snipped, Megan was wrapped in swaddling clothes, and given to me.
For the first 10 minutes of her new life, I held Megan in my arms, she looking directly into my eyes, and mine into hers, an event that is most often referred to as imprinting, a remarkable phenomenon that occurs in the first minutes and hours of life. From that moment to this, my connection with my daughter has remained the strongest bond of my life.
The months after Megan’s birth were tempestuous in her mother’s life, as our marriage was slowly breaking down.
By the time Megan was nine months of age, and I was enrolled in a Master’s programme at Simon Fraser University, her mother had removed Megan from the jurisdiction several times — these days we’d call it kidnapping, but back then in the limbo of a jurisdictional dispute between the family court and Supreme Court, and a supine provincial government seemingly unable or unwilling to bring closure to the jurisdictional debate (the Supreme Court eventually “won”, and was given jurisdiction over custodial and all other matters relating to the welfare of children), in B.C. we existed in a state of stasis, the welfare of our children in jeopardy.
Over the months of her first year, Megan would be taken away, I’d frantically attempt to discover her whereabouts, and the family court, police & Ministry of Human Resources would become involved in the pursuit of discovering Megan’s whereabouts (I was never overly concerned about Megan’s welfare — I knew she was with her mother and that was fine with me, it was just that I missed her & wished her reunited with her brother).
Early in 1978, when Megan had “disappeared” again, this time for a couple of months — Cathy had taken Megan to her mother’s winter home in Arizona — and was “apprehended” by Ministry social workers upon Cathy and Megan’s return, arrangements were made to once again place Megan in my care (at the time, I thought Cathy had got a raw deal in the courts).
One Saturday afternoon early in the year, arrangements were made for a social worker to drop Megan off at a friend’s home in the 4400 block of Albert Street, near Willingdon and East Hastings. A request had been made that the “exchange” take place in a public area — in this case, a friend’s home — and shortly after 1pm, there was a knock at the door. Someone sitting nearby the front entrance opened the door, the social worker asked if I was present, to which the person who’d answered the door said, “yes.” I could see around the corner near the front entrance, and could see Megan gently moved from the arms of the social worker, until her two feet touched the ground, at which point the social worker exited.

Megan, looking into the room, saw what I am sure she experienced as an unusual and confusing sight. That afternoon, was my usual practice, I was a participant in a Marxist reading group, about 20 friends scattered around the room, half of them men, half of them women. As was the de rigeur haberdashery presentation style of the day, I was wearing rimless glasses, had on a check shirt and jeans, my hair dark, wavy and unkempt, as I sat reclined in an armchair on the other side of the room, about twenty to twenty-five feet away from where Megan stood near the front entrance.
Megan set about to scan the room, all the men looking almost identical with their longish dark hair, checkered shirts, beards, worn jeans, with world weary, pre-revolutionary looks on their faces. The room went momentarily silent, at which point Megan took her first tentative steps, then a bit more determinedly, heading straight for me, stopping at and holding my bony knees, allowing me to pick her up and onto my lap, she turning to look at my face, then placing her body against my chest, breathing slowly and rhythmically. The Marxist reading group continued our afternoon’s activity.
After two months away from me, and at such a young age, how did Megan recognize me on that chill mid-winter’s afternoon?
The answer: the same way she has always recognized me, as my daughter, me as her father, our bond unbreakable, then, now and forever.

In 1986, some 32 years ago now, when my daughter Megan was a strapling girl of nine years, late one autumn Sunday morning on Granville Island, Megan and Jude and I — the three of us having enjoyed our once-a-month breakfast on the Island — found ourselves in the Market wandering up and down the aisles where various of the foodsmiths had set up their wares.
As Megan and I were standing among the throngs of families along one of the aisles, waiting for Jude to make his way back in from the area just outside the southeast doors, where he was on the sunny promenade chasing the birds, I spotted a tall, strikingly beautiful woman in brightly coloured, textured clothing. Megan saw that I had noticed this woman.
Megan looked at me and said, “No, don’t.”
“But, Megan,” I responded.
“Fine, but don’t take too long.”
So, leaving Megan alone momentarily, I approached the young woman, who was standing with her friend just mere feet away. After introducing myself, I said to the young woman (22 years of age, I was to learn), “I took notice of your colourful & artistic presentation of self, your warmly textured choice of clothing, and was wondering if perhaps you are a student at Emily Carr?”
“Thank you for asking,” she responded. “No, I am not a student at Emily Carr. Rather, I am enrolled in the Psychology Department at UBC’s Point Grey campus, where I am currently working on my undergraduate degree.”
“May I enquire as to what year,” I asked?
“Third,” she said.
“Almost fixed, then, I guess,” I said.
“Yes, almost fixed,” she said, sighing just a little, a gentle smile on her lips.
A which point, I bid her adieu, wishing her well, saying what a pleasure it had been to meet her and her friend, indicating Megan standing just a few steps away, and begged my leave in order to return my awaiting daughter.
Upon arriving back at Megan’s side, she looked at me and said, “Well?”
“Not a student at Emily Carr. In her third year in Psychology at UBC,” I said, looking at Megan.
“Oh,” Megan said. “Jude’s going to meet us over at The Loft. I want to get some beads. Let’s head over there now.” And off the two of us went, to be joined by Jude about 10 minutes later.
If you can’t tell from the story above, I am an ineffable, unrepentant, inveterate flirt, as has been the case my entire adult life through until now.

I love women, have always loved women, have found myself gifted throughout the entirety of my adult life with loving relationships of long duration with beautiful, accomplished, tough-minded, take no guff, incredibly bright women of conscience.
Whatever few recommendable aspects there may be of how I bring myself to the world, it is the women in my life who have helped to shape me, and created the man whose words you read on the screen before you.
As it happens, from my teenage years through until the present day, I have never pursued the love of a woman. I possess no desire, nor ever possessed any intent whatsoever, so as to cause concern to any woman, and arising from such have not pursued a relationship with a woman, lest I may cause concern, or interfere with a woman’s quiet enjoyment of life.
Throughout the course of my adult life through until now, there has indeed occurred that rare and salutary occasion when a woman has made known to me her warm feelings of support — but because I am not good at reading signs of interest, the warm feeling must be made well known to me through explicit if gently encouraging conduct, otherwise my relationship with the women with whom I come into contact in the conduct of my life may be best defined as joyous, friendly, and warmly & utterly appreciative.
Every relationship of consequence I have had with a woman, and there have been a few, has come as an utter surprise (an encouragingly pleasant surprise) to me, made plain from that first moment I am kissed unawares, and then kissed again, when I think to myself, “I think she likes me!”
And my heart flutters, a joy washes over me, and I am enveloped in love.
Every relationship of consequence I have had with a woman begins with that first kiss, and you will be surprised to learn has in each case led to immediate co-habitation. Kismet, they call it, reaching across the universe, through time and space to reconnect with someone you have known and who has been a part of your life through the ages, and time immemorial.
And once again, I feel loved and understood, supported and protected, and she having once again found her mate feels loved and understood, supported and protected, and always always she has recognized me, such perhaps that I am once again renewed and reborn, and feel fully alive.
Flirting, though, is not quite that, although it is, still, a reaching across the universe to re-establish a sense of connection with someone you have known always. Innocent flirting. I love both the idea of flirting and the circumstances of flirtation, as a harmless, yet effectual means of establishing an immediate deep, often profound, and enduring connection.

Eighteen months ago, I was invited to a friend’s birthday party.
Attending at the party was an amalgam of persons of conscience of my acquaintance, folks who are comfortable in their own skin, friendly, relaxed and on this day warmly companionable.
Midway through the party, I found myself standing over by the kitchen, leaning against a dividing wall between the kitchen and the dining room, observing all that was unfolding before me. As a trained sociologist, there’s nothing I like better than to stand back and away from what is going on in a room full of people, simply to observe, as if somehow at the end of the event I am attending, my intention would be to publish a reflective academic treatise, a scholarly abstract to be found in an obscure journal.
Some minutes into my casual yet intensive observation of all those persons attending the celebration, a woman of stature, warmth and substance made her way over to where I was leaning against the divide, the woman in her late 30s maybe, no older than early 40s, blonde, beautiful of soul & presentation, self-assured, warm & welcoming.
Unusual for me, all I said was hello — instead of the usual ramble for which I am well-renowned. I felt at ease with her, safe, comfortable & protected.
A few minutes into our conversation, as is sometimes the case, much to my surprise and amazement, I initiated an innocent flirtation with this woman, more to maintain my comfort level and a sense of equilibrium than for any other reason, in recognition that this was a woman of accomplishment and serious mien with whom I was conversing, well above my station I knew for sure, as she casually self-disclosed the most intimate details of her life with me — which could be seen as nothing else but building a sense of trust, a humane reaching out, and quite simply the most healthy act in which any person of character and conscience might engage, to actually reach out and touch another person’s heart, in the process creating palpable contact and connection, which disclosure required of me the necessity to overcome my natural shyness, to listen with intent and a kind and trusting heart.
So, there I was quietly flirting with this woman of accomplishment, becoming ever more engaged and amazed, but calm, in an ever-increasing zen state with every passing moment. The brief encounter I had with this woman of accomplishment has proved over the past 18th months to be my most moving new connection and engagement of character and substance.

During the course of our 15-minute conversation, this woman told me all about herself, about her husband, her family and her children, why she wasn’t living on the west side but instead on the east side of the city, and the circumstances of her life — the only woman, the only person, who at our first meeting has ever trusted me as deeply as was the case here, that afternoon, with so intimate an insight into not just the prosaic aspects of her life, but with a penetrating insight into her philosophical, psychological and emotional makeup, how she derived meaning in her life, the successes of her life and those circumstances where she felt she might have done, and hoped to do better in the future.
No one, but no one is ever self-revelatory — but this vision, this spectral presence of pure loveliness who stood before me on that sunny Saturday afternoon certainly was. I simply stood there transfixed but present, fully appreciative of the gift of trust and connection that was being established, able to engage in conversation as equals, even in recognition of this woman of great accomplishment, astonishing wisdom & utter warmth and kindness.
At which point the woman’s beloved husband popped over to say to his wife that they had to be on their way, after which the two simply vanished.