Thoughts of the Miraculous

I wrote this on November 11, 2008. But, I thought it was a nice posting for the Christmas season ... Season's Greetings to you All :)

Today is first snowfall.

I could smell it last night -- it smells of heavy anticipation.

And the sky is a strange shade of grey on white. When you wake up, you know it has snowed even before you look out the window. The air that filters into the room, between the curtain and the window's edge, is more bright, more sharp, but less warm.

I don't mind it. Snow is inevitable.

When snow comes, I feel a sense of relief. That indeed Edmonton is the same as it always has been -- spring, summer, fall, winter. Winter.

Even if we can't rely upon world financial markets or politics, we can still rely on winter.

Not to mention that everything looks ineffectual just before snowfall. The grass is yellow, flowers are wilting and the trees are almost bare, leaves clinging to the end of their branches.

But with that silver frost and layer of white outlining all that remains outside, all of a sudden the tree is beautiful again. Each branch made complex and purposeful once more.

Yes, snow uncovers the miraculous in the ordinary.

Blogging

my writing isn’t me
it guides me
shelters me
shows me to myself when I am lost

but my writing is not me

it is a thread woven into the fabric of my day
it is the dye that colors the hue of what I love, what I hate
the catalyst that helps an emotion become a thought
or a thought become a passion

and if my words are not me
if you do not know me
from reading the words on this page
what would I suggest you do to
know the real me?

listen to me laugh?
watch my face while I watch the daily news?
scan my grocery list?

my writing is a portait of
the whim of an emotion
the wisps of my hopes
the whispers of my rationale

my writing is a moment
of my reality or
imagined reality

but my writing is not me

(inspired by an August posting by Serenity Tide)

occupational hazard

I attended an incredible conference last month focused on the Science Fiction and Fantasy book publishing industry.

Everywhere I turned, I ran into an editor, writer, publisher from all of the major publishing companies in North America. I didn't (unfortunately) come across my favorite author of all time (who inspired me to be a writer in the first place - Robin McKinley), but there was enough there to keep me occupied.

Of course, there are lots of "sub-genres" in this genre: paranormal, mystery, paranormal-mystery, horror, gothic thriller, etc. It was a great opportunity for me to really s-t-r-e-t-c-h my imagination.

As a result, though, I have been imagining strange sorts of happenings all the time now, freaking myself out.

The other day, one of the little pipes in my condo had a little leak, leading to the sound of lightly rushing water in the middle of the night. As I heard the sounds of swirls and I reached for the my bedside lamp, I couldn't help but think, "gee this would make a great opening for a horror short story".

I quickly banished the thought out of my mind, knowing that just like every horror story out there, I would actually have to go "see" what all the noise was about.

Last week, I picked up the phone to have one of those phone canvassers ask me, "can I have a moment of your time?" It got me thinking, what if I said, "yes" and he said, "thank you" and then hung up ... would I find that creepy? Absolutely! And, off I go again on another tangent of strange happenings that make me really not want to answer the phone at all these days.

I like that my imagination is running amok. It's exciting! I'm just not so sure how healthy it is for my anxiety levels.

Consistency - the Sequel

consistency vs. passion

it scares me
to reek of complacency
Hear ye , Hear ye -
announcing
adherence to a pattern
shackles
rendering emotions useless

And yet, ardent passion
love of life
listening with one’s soul
has no obligation to commit

where does consistency live?
In the heart and not the mind?
In your soul but not in thoughts?

is human nature, by default,
inconsistent

is that so bad?

integrity might be a better goal ...
to have integrity sometimes means
being inconsistent
but you can still be
a
constant

**

"A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines. With consistency a great soul has simply nothing to do. He may as well concern himself with his shadow on the wall. Speak what you think now in hard words and tomorrow speak what tomorrow thinks in hard words again, though it contradict everything you said today. 'Ah, so you shall be sure to be misunderstood' -Is it so bad then to be misunderstood? Pythagoras was misunderstood, and Socrates, and Jesus, and Luther, and Copernicus, and Galileo, and Newton, and every pure and wise spirit that ever took flesh. To be great is to be misunderstood."

Ralph Waldo Emerson


(thanks to Quiche for stimulating this little round-about of a muse)

debt

consult the daytimer

plan the thinking
schedule the planning
planning the schedule

until you forget
that time
isn’t borrowed

Musings on Consistency - Part I

When I quit my job, I scheduled a week away in a cabin, on a lake, away from the city.

I had dreams of achieving Thoreau-like inspiration for my writing, but as anticipated, I spent the first few days sleeping a lot. However, I did get an hour or two of writing in each day. I was extra alert … aware that I might miss work or feel frustrated as I tried to re-integrate writing into my life .. but strangely … as I slowly fell into the new rhythms of my life, what surprised me most was the weather.

In the morning, it would be gorgeous – a shocking blue sky – followed by a violent thunderstorm, then brooding clouds in the afternoon and maybe mild weather, alternating sun and shade in the evening. It wasn’t always in this order mind you – but it was some strange combination of the three contrasting conditions.

At first, I attributed the strange weather to the lake. Perhaps, I was in the middle of some geo-thermal anomaly that made the lake a hotbed of weather dynamics.

But, as I moved into August, set up my business at home, and found more time to write at my own kitchen table, I realized that every day was simply inconsistent. At least, the weather was.

I’ve worked for many years in an office setting. Sometimes with a window and sometimes with just a picture of the outside world. Nevertheless, I had assumed if it was a sunny day – it was sunny and nothing else. I had forgotten that weather evolves, moves, creates.

Now that I have time, space and energy to really see outside my window – to see that weather is everything but a constant, I’m seeing that life is like that too.

Theresa's Final Gift

I've wandered
from your sheltering hands
to walk in unknown lands,
some full of shadows of many forms
and some with none at all

I've drifted
from the humility of love
gentle acceptance
lost in the swirl of apathy
suffering in scientific tyranny

I've tried
to return, a prodigal daughter
never too far, always listening
for an answer
for that spark of passion
that used to be our guide
leadership without vanity

But when I heard
your most precious daughter
lifted her fist against the sky
cursed the darkness
welcomed the darkest of your enemies
- doubt -

I knew
there always is a place for me
in this family

I looked for proof in light
when, of course,
you are found in darkness

Prince Edward Calls

Prince Edward Island, on the other hand, was a different experience altogether.

How is that? One shore seems so foreign. And another -- not so far away -- feels like home, though it's the first time I've ever laid eyes on it.

Perhaps it was the rolling hills of farmland. It was enough to remind me of my own province: the hay bales, the activity of fall harvest. But their land is not flat, so I could see the delightful patchwork of reds, oranges and yellows embedded in their thick greens. And yet, there was still enough of the clean blue sky for me to see, so my prairie senses would not be suffocated.

And the sea! Red cliffs dropped to the rolling waves, framed by hardy strands of pale green grass. Truly enchanted.

Yes, here, I could transplant myself for a year or two. I have already started to devise ways to return ...

Cape Breton Reflections

I could fall in love with this rugged land,
rough-hewn shores,
grace untouched by fashion

determination in each breathing leaf
shaped by the temperament of each wave that lands
over and over and over again

but as the moments stretch
diving into contented admiration
drowning in each sigh of satisfaction

the truth emerges
this is not my home
and this harbor offers me no shelter

i need not linger
so i throw it a silent kiss
turn my face into the fresh living wind
whisper a prayer of thanks
and move on

around noon, Newport, Rhode Island

15 little white sails popping up from the twinkling blue riveted my attention. A host of young teens were learning to sail in small vessels clearly built for one. They formed an armada of mini-sailboats and their captains efficiently moved within them.

The sea and winds must be their masters in a way the sun is mine. They must time everything according to her tides and currents and his gusts and gales. They seem aware with a set of senses I cannot imagine carrying ... being able to predict and capture the power of the wind in a sail, weaving in and out of their boat, ducking under their ever pivoting sail, the way a boxer incessantly dodges punches.

I -- who grew up land-locked -- who measures the seasons by lengths of days -- not by the temperature of the seas or the strength of the winds ... I wonder what it would be like to have the winds and waters as my master.

5:45 pm - 6:45 pm, Madison Square Gardens, NYC

Waiting for my cousin, I take the time to watch the people of this city.

This city of the world -- not just of North America, but one teeming with global flavour.

I find some things that meet my expectations: a man walking with a big fat pretzel, a woman on her cellphone complaining about her relationship without pausing for a breath in fifteen minutes, artists carrying sketchbooks, and of course, the tourists.

I'm in all the pictures now of Madison Square Gardens for that hour. I blink as the flashes go off. Not used to lights from cameras nearby, nor the lights from the large screen behind me. I keep looking at the sky, wondering if the dark clouds above bring lightning with them ... then laugh at my innocent assumptions.

There are some things that surprise me: a tall blond man carrying a surfboard, a short bald south-asian man who looks like some kind of guru, except his green pants seem too shiny, and about four men whom I am certain I would have married in another lifetime. (They were not drop dead gorgeous -- they just looked like they would have made good husbands).

At about six pm, women and their young children go by me in parades. The toddlers are in strollers or perching from a carrying sling in front of the speedy, effective parents. Others walk alongside their parents. I didn't know three year olds could walk so fast.

The streets are impeccably clean. Here, in this hub, there is a garbage can every ten paces. (I count the paces as people walk pas - yes, it is ten steps). And I witness two men come by with their garbage bags and dustpans, sweeping up the cigarette butts and cleaning out the garbage. Maybe more than usual smoking this week in NYC. I catch snippets of conversation about rates and markets.

But even more than cleanliness, I see what surprises me most. The reports are true. New Yorkers are polite. A man drops a newspaper, the person behind him picks it up, runs to catch up with him and offers the paper back. One of the street cleaners tries to sweep a napkin into his dustpan. The wind blows it out of his reach. He tries and the wind gusts again. Another reach, and the napkin still escapes. Finally a young man, with a guitar slung across his back,  steps on the napkin with his boot, picks it up and gently pushes it with his hand into the dustpan. Now, THAT's polite. It's hard to impress a Canadian with politeness, let me tell you.

A teen comes out of the subway, stops and does a couple of dance moves, oblivious to the people smiling around him. He opens one eye and grins. He knows he's watched. And then, three people saunter by, walking slow, with nowhere to go -- ah, they must be the tourists.

 

Story Slam-Off

There's a fantastic event in our city called "Story Slam".

Participants come up to a mike and have five minutes to tell a story. It must be an original story. Judges randomly picked from the audience rate the story from 1 to 10. A final score is given based on the total of the three middle scores (top score and bottom score are dropped). If you go over five minutes, you lose points. Each audience member throws five dollars into a hat (for the fantastic entertainment) and the winner gets the money. On some nights, we've had a prize of $500.

I love the dynamic created between readers and writers at events like this. An intimacy is created between the audience and the storyteller. Unlike any other performing arts event I go to, there is free flowing dialogue between the listener and the writer after the event. And the writers can be beginners or experienced. And there's no telling who wins!

Two months ago we had the semi-finals: the winner from each month competed in a story slam. Last night, we had the finals - the Slam-Off. The top six had to read two stories instead of just one. I was one of the top six.

I gave it my best. During these last months of writing and preparation, I felt quite competitive but I arrived at the event last night and realized how privileged I was to be among these talented writers. It didn't matter if I won. I was just happy to be participating.

Here are my two stories. I came in third. I got a little bit of recognition and a little prize :) It was a great night.

(If you're interested in creating a Story Slam Event in your community, let me know. I help support the organization of this event and can put you in touch with the person who started it in our city.)

Story One

Growing up, I was taught that dying was a natural consequence of everything I endeavored to undertake. My mother was endowed with a special hormone that creates unnecessary paranoia that allowed her to connect jumping on beds, running fast and eating more than two cookies with dying. It’s a miracle I’m standing here before you.

However, as I developed my own reasoning skills, my mother learned to be a little more realistic with the consequences she foresaw. And instead of death, I heard warnings like: “Wear a sweater, or else you’ll get pneumonia and go to the hospital” or “If you don’t wear makeup, you’ll never get married.”

With this in mind, I dreaded, at the age of eighteen, telling my mother what I had planned for the May long weekend.

“Camping?” she said.

I replied, “We went camping with you and Dad when we were kids.”

“In a motor home,” she answered. “You want to camp in a tent?” She was disgusted. “It’s not safe, honey.”

I mentally reviewed our weekend plans. We had thought about going to the mountains but camping elsewhere would be fine, I decided.

My mother was still talking. “It’s dangerous because of the … “

“Yes, I know. Bears,” I interrupted. “But we’re going to the lake. There’s no bears there.”

She answered, “It’s not bears, I’m worried about. You know why it’s dangerous … you know what’s there?”

My mind raced. What crazed news story had she read about now? Wolves? Mountain Lions?

“What, mother?” I asked.

“When convicts escape – you know the first place they’ll go to, don’t you?”

I tried to keep my jaw attached to the rest of my face. “The campground?”

“Mmm-hmm,” she replied, eyebrows raised. “The campground.”

I was at a loss. My mother didn’t want me to go camping for fear of escaped convicts. I grasped for a solution. I convinced her there would be a huge number of friends – and strong boys – on my trip. She felt comforted.

The problem was, it was a lie. There would only be three of us – and all girls. But, why worry? The campground would be packed with people. Imagine my surprise when we discovered that it was so early in the season, nobody else was camping at Ma-Me-O Beach … except for me and my two friends, Sue and Leanne.

But, I took it all in stride. As the night wore on though, I felt a strange transformation taking place. Worries appeared unbidden in my mind, shadows grew, sounds magnified. I ignored them though until we had tucked ourselves in for the night, snug in our tent, buried in our sleeping bags.

Then, … crunch, crunch, crunch – footsteps. Someone was walking outside. My god – who would be walking out here without a vehicle – except for … an escaped convict??

“Do you hear those footsteps?” I whispered.

Leanne was still awake. “Yes,”

“Oh oh.” I continued. “I think I left the ax outside.”

I had to think on my feet. I prayed Leanne would catch on. In a loud voice, I said, “Could you ask Bob to move over? There’s not enough room for me.” That’s what we needed, a big man in the tent.

In her brilliance, Leanne improvised and said, [read in a deep man voice] “Alright, I’ll move over.”

Sue spoke up. “Who’s Bob?”

Panic engulfed me. Sue would be the end of us. If I died because of this ex-convict, my mother would kill me for not listening to her.

Leanne ignored Sue and said “Bob’s moved over, you should have enough room now.”

After a long pause, Sue said, “Who the hell is Bob?”

If the escaped convict was going to strike, he was going to do it then.

But, no one attacked us, and we never heard the footsteps again. After the delirious giggles we collapsed into - out of relief more so than humor – we finally fell asleep.

After that, I was a little more merciful with my mother. It seemed I was stricken with the affliction myself - this overactive imagination. My mother uses it to feed her worries and I use it to feed my stories – Bob being my first creation.

Now when my mother warns me of death, bankruptcy, or spinsterhood because of my haircut, my expensive shoes or how much time I spend in the sun … I just smile and nod. It’s really a blessing. In a sense, because of her worries, I’m standing here before you.

Story Two

Words – they echoed off the walls. Words from my mother’s language -- comforting, rhythmic, familiar – words I do not understand. In these words, my mother’s family recovered their home, talking faster, complaining louder, laughing harder. Words flew around the room during family reunions, where my mother’s siblings and their families totalled at least sixty people.

But, in January of 2004, my families’ words were colored by a different hue for we had gathered because my grandmother had died.

My grandmother was the axis of our chaotic family. A true matriarch – a Dona in my mother’s words. The funeral ceremony was to be everything she deserved, showcasing her greatest pride - her family. So every role in the funeral – whether it was handing out programs, holding flowers, singing songs – were to be evenly distributed between representatives of our families. Our own personal United Nations.

And because my talent was with words, words that could be molded and shaped – it was decided I would give the eulogy. I agreed. You don’t disagree with a request like that. But what words would disguise the fact that I never knew my grandmother?

She didn’t speak English and I didn’t speak her dialect, so our conversation consisted of phrases like “how are you grandma?” “love you grandma” and “time to eat, grandma”.

I had vivid memories of her visits to Edmonton – summer nights of our house overflowing with company. Windows open, fans whirring, and all of the adults unnaturally generous and patient. And, of course, the kitchen. Always warm and full of wondrous scents … magically churning out delights without end – like her homemade sausages, or Filipino desserts full of ice shavings, coconut, jello and fruit – or my favourite – ensemada – a sweet cheese-filled bun, with sugar sprinkled on top.

But those words would not be sufficient for her funeral – to say that I would miss my grandmother’s sausages? My words could describe what I found remarkable about my grandmother. How she never went to school, but ran a farming business. How she married twice – both husbands much younger than her. And how she was equally religious and superstitious, always carrying her rosary (for protection) and bullet shells (for good luck). You can imagine which got her into trouble at the airports.

But what I loved most about my grandmother were her kisses. She leaned into my face and I would feel her soft, wrinkly skin on my cheek, and then she would take a big breath in, as if my very scent brought her life.

But, I knew my family. These words were not respectful – thought they carried the truth of what I loved in her. I had shaped words in the past to fit the occasion. But, it was my grandmother, distortion here seemed wrong. And she was dead – she would know if I was lying. Worst of all, I had not shed a tear since I had heard the news. I loved her, but I did not feel that gaping hole that leaves so many breathless after death has touched their lives.

So when it was my turn to speak my words, words that were scattered into the wide church aisles, touching the bottom of the stained glass windows and breezing through the flower petals that rested on my grandmother’s coffin, it was the first time – ever - I felt that words could not live up to their task.

My words could not capture her – her greatest fear, her favourite color, her most cherished memory. My words could not keep her in the world that I knew – the world of sight and touch and smell. So, I spoke words that described what I knew for certain. The impact she had on me. On my mother, my five year old cousin, and my fifty year old aunt.

After I had finished my eulogy, I walked back to my seat, and slid onto the bench beside my sister. We all knelt for a moment, in silence. And in that empty lonely space, I broke down and wept. My grandmother didn’t need words. She never needed words. It was a most precious lesson – embodied in who she was and how she lived, and in how I said goodbye to her. It’s not in the words, it’s - ....

[hand on the heart – in silence].

progress

It's a Tuesday night.

It feels like Fall. The nights are chillier and I'm often hauling my sweaters out of my closet. My toes are cold if I wear sandals and I'm turning the lights on in my living room earlier and earlier each night. Darkness descends around 8pm now. Gone are the northern long days of summer when the sun sets at around eleven.

Traffic is busy. Kids are back in school and the University area is always crowded. Even my friends without children -- they are caught up in the season. New night courses, fitness classes, September resolutions. A time of new beginnings. Everyone and everything is preoccupied. And even if we aren't starting something new - we're trying to finish what we can before the snow falls.

It will be soon.

But tonight, it rains. Drops splatter on the windshield as I make my way to kickboxing. No classes yet, just meeting some friends in the park to train. I hope. Maybe the rain will stop.

Turning on the heat, I stop at a traffic light and see it to the left of me. I almost missed it. I glance in my rearview mirror. The driver catches it too and is transfixed. I look ahead; the man in the Volvo glances back and forth between the traffic light and out his window. I look to the car beside me. Her head is tilted in admiration. She catches me looking at her and smiles at me.

Is she thinking the same thing as me?

Is she grateful? I am. I'm grateful to discover that when people see a rainbow, they still take the time to stop and look. And see. Even amidst all of this activity we call life.

We haven't lost all of our wonder. Yet.

ful-fill

calling, calling
I have heard
the whispers too long
deaf to their demands

they shift their form to
rustling of the grass through my fingertips
crunching of broken leaves under my steps

and I remember
I’ve missed listening

truths they speak
power of expression
humility of a gift
challenge of capturing
that one moment
that one breath

chiding, chiding
bestowing a blessing
a responsibility

creation

create

care
about the calling
that I alone cannot answer

until my words connect to
another
and complete
their purpose

so I can complete mine

Ode: Collective Heritage

I've always grown up thinking of my home city as this little town in the middle of the prairies. Our population of one million people seemed so small compared to the busy cities all over the world. I remember looking in awe around Lima, Peru thinking "this single city has a third of Canada's population."

The great thing about Canada though, is the diversity of cultures. Despite our rustic reputation, one of the most attended festivals in Edmonton is "Heritage Days". Cultural community associations gather and use the opportunity to proudly demonstrate their heritage. Each country has a tent where they sell some of their most tempting wares - art, clothes, jewellery and of course - their mouthwatering food. (This is where you learn that people universally love fried dough or meat on a stick). Most countries also have a stage where they demonstrate the music, song and other forms of performance art from their cultures.

I've been going to this festival since I was a little girl. It's the only one I never grow tired of. There are always new people coming to Canada and cultures re-discovering aspects of their heritage and integrating them with the new. This year, I got to hear rap in Swahili! Our festival boasted a new number of pavilions - 52 countries represented here in our city.

What a wonderful celebration!

Collective Heritage

searing August sun
trampled grass
hazy orange light that slips
through tarps to fall in strips
on wares carved
by distant hands in skilled lands

all senses assaulted by a
cacophany of delights

the thundering seducing beat of drums
challenged by soft powdery promise of
sweet sugar dust, melting on warm dough
boistorous shouts of rosy-cheeked dancers
and the elegant art of orient assaults

overwhelming
intoxicating
familiar
this messy mosaic of Canada

release

she Worked through it all
stabbed her Anger
wept her Fears
Reasoned with her options

and at the end
of a long cool night
Brave enough to
peel back the layers
of Regret and Shame

she finally gets to the Heart of it
and there,
to her surprise,
It still Beats

Sadness

listening

it is not because
they tower above the horizon
reaching their boughs to the sky
bristling in the breeze
seeing what the falcon sees

it is not because
they plunge into the earth
funnelling through rich debris of life
tasting the currents of water beneath
mired in cool patience

it is not because
they connect in ways we cannot imagine
each tiny cell of every leaf
to the furthest reach of its roots
responsive
ready

it’s because
for every finger that traced a pattern on its trunk
for every head that’s taken pause in grateful shade
for every sigh that’s muttered
tears that’s shed
secret whispered
love proclaimed
laughter echoed
beneath their branches

they are privy to the stories of that soul

syllables of emotion
etched into their leaves

i like to think
that is why
the trees are wise

More than Words

I have nothing against technology … most notably in the current context (what you're reading) for communication.

I use the internet to stay in touch with friends and family who don’t live in my city ... and new blogfriends too. I use the cell phone to call for help when I am silly enough to lock my purse and keys inside my car. In open view. In the inner city.

But when techno-communication starts replacing human interaction, I worry. A documentary on CBC last month talked about the role of the cell phone in Japan. Apparently, on Japanese subways it is considered rude to talk -- you might disturb others who are watching videos on their phones or texting one another.

It’s rude to talk in public?

(And since I am always working in different cultural contexts, I’m really trying to see the cultural side of this).

And, Don’t Feed the Pixies rightly laments in one of his postings over the fact that one of the pre-programmed messages arriving with new cell phones today is "I love you too."

Alright. I'm a romantic. And a writer at that. But the expression of love and all that comes with it – vulnerability, acceptance, steadfast presence – has no place in a text message.

There's a point – where words, if used too much, –become meaningless.

Sure, we have instant communication – anywhere and anytime – but at what price? Frankly, it’s changed the face of dating. Last week, my younger cousin asked me for advice about a love interest in her life. “He texts me every day to say good morning – do you think he likes me?"

I was speechless. I was going to go into an analysis about how if he actually takes the time to painstakingly put in each letter – maybe … but if it’s an automatic message he can program … then, no. And, then I stopped and realized how ridiculous that would sound.

Call me crazy, but I like to see someone’s expression on their face when you share your day with them, whether or not they lean in when you’re close by, or how they look when you enter a room. Whether or not they show up when they say they’ll show up and if they’re listening when it’s your turn to talk.

I understand how “currency” works – people like love expressed in different ways. Quality time, affection, gifts, or (my favorite) service. When I lived in the Philippines for six months, young men used to bring over candy or carry my books to the bus. In Costa Rica, romantic interest was measured by how many times he asked you to salsa or whether or not he walked you back to your residence. Different ways, but expressions *in person* nevertheless.

More than words.
And definitely not a pre-programmed message that you could send while driving your car at the same time.

Certainly, I don’t expect someone in this day and age to come to my window and serenade me.

But, I suppose – if a text message is not enough for me – you could call me old-fashioned.

foibles and friends

(as told in a storytelling competition last summer)

In University, Imran was my best friend. You know how friends bring out the worst and best in people? Well, Imran was my best friend because he was best at bringing out my worst.

The other thing that brings out the best and worst in people is camping. Sharing a tent and communally making meals tells you a great deal about a person’s character.

So, one weekend after the not-very-bright idea of bringing Imran on a camping trip, and surviving the multitude of arguments that ensued -- on the long drive home on Highway 2 -- my other friend, Julia, and I shared the observation (out loud, of course, to Imran himself) that Imran was a closet chauvinist.

Imran’s response was a big, snorting guffaw.

“Look,” I said. “You’re Mr. City Boy who’s camped - maybe twice in your life - and yet, who insisted that they should build the fire?”

Campfires. Now, there’s another good personality test – right up there with Myers-Briggs. Julia and I had baptized Imran with his new name — Prometheus — after the first night for bestowing his gift of fire to us lowly girly-girls.

“As if you’re not a city girl,” he retorted. He picked on me, cause he he knew Julia was untouchable. She had grown up in Stettler.

My back stiffened. “I am not,” I defended myself. In the nineties, I was granola through and through — way before it was hip to be earthy.

“I’ve certainly spent a lot more time outdoors than you,” I said. Imran was not the tree-planter type. The man was an expert on color-coordination, lived on chocolate covered coffee beans and regularly called me up to say “need to cancel for tomorrow, gotta skip town, someone slashed my tires” or some variation on that. If anything, Imran was part of the brown mafia, but not the boyscouts.

He challenged me. “Oh yeah – and what kind of stuff have you done outdoors?”

I dove into the litany of the weekends I spent at my aunt’s cabin, picking saskatoon berries, going on tractor rides and catching toads so we could race them. I reviewed the camping and fishing trips with my family, squishing minnows onto fishhooks for bait, skipping rocks on the lake and burning my tongue with charred marshmellows. I was so-NOT a city girl.

“And?” he snapped. “A couple of days in the whole year. I say you’re still a city girl.”

I felt the blood rush to my ears. What kind of friend was this? Trying to tell me that he knew me better than myself?

(Of course, this is what real friends do, but I didn’t know that so early in my adult life.)

That’s when something inside me turned.

“I have a zoo degree, mister. I’ve had to climb trees, collect worms, and work my way through canola fields,” I pressed. He looked unimpressed. I clenched my teeth. “We even had to sleep overnight there.”

Julia piped up. “Canola?”

“Canola,” I said with finality.

“Oh, fine,” Imran said, defeat in his voice. “Sleeping in canola fields. I guess you’re not a city girl after all.”

“Thank you,” I said indignation vibrating in every part of me. And in no way, regretting that every word of the last sentence spoken from my lips had been a complete and utter lie.

I had wanted to climb up the trees, but my classmates insisted that I record the data. Sure, I collected worms – from my petri dish. And the canola field? Inspired by my view out the window.

It just took over me. I didn’t give it a second thought. The primal part of me (the part that felt five years old) wanted – no, needed – to win that argument. And it decided to disconnect my brain from my mouth and short-circuit it to something else.

Who said those words? I thought. And, then, it didn’t matter – it was eclipsed by the satisfaction of winning the argument.

It took a whole week to actually feel badly about the lie.

I confessed to Julia first.

“I was wondering about that,” she said. “Canola’s really itchy. I wasn’t sure how you could sleep there.”

Imran was not so forgiving. He wasn’t mad, just triumphant. And then, quite delighted to point out how, I – Roxanne – the Ms. Righteous Social Issues Activist — who sees the world in such clean lines of right and wrong -- had so easily descended into lying to win an argument.

The next couple of times we fought, he’d always counter with, “and how do I know you’re not lying about that?” … which lasted for about two years.

I’m not so harsh on liars anymore – politicians, movie stars, family and friends. There’s always popcorn gallery talk like “how could they lie like that??” and I’d respond with a simple “it happens.”

Who knows what “it” is… passion, fear, pride. The emotional prefix to a lie.

Sometimes, when I drive along Highway 2 and the bright shock of yellow canola fields break the monotony of green along the horizon, I remember my little indiscretion and I smile.

And, then, I always start to feel a little itchy.

shades

color coding emails
alphabetizing spices
filing bills

feeds illusions that
I can
outline
carve out
my flaws

but what if
the worst of me
held a trace of my most sacred grace

and the best of me
carried a tint of my shadiest fault

then i can forgive
myself for both
loving too much
or not enough

untitled

One thin sliver of green
fluttering in the wind
barely whispering

But when all the
leaves chorus together

A joyous storm results

Fresh Purpose

In order to better my own art (and just because I find it interesting), I like to talk to other folks about their own creativity process in whatever art they work in – whether it be photography, sculpture, design or theatre.

A sort of creative cross-training, so to speak.

A talented photographer that I know, Jonathan (check out his website), posed an interesting question to me over coffee the other day. I shared how I occasionally struggle with the fact that I don’t have any formal education in creative writing. For the most part, it doesn't bother me, as I know the key to being a good writer is … well – writing … but sometimes I wonder if it’s possible to find my own voice without studying the voices of great writers in detail.

He responded, “Well, maybe to find your voice, you need to ask yourself – what do you want to bring to the world through your writing?”

I didn’t have an answer.

I value my writing. I honor the writing process and what it brings me. But, it hadn’t occurred to me that I could bring something to the greater world through that process. That what the audience gets from my writing doesn’t have to be an unintended consequence, but something planned and strived for.

In the visual arts world, they call it an “artist’s statement”. In the business and social service world, we call it a “vision”. In planning my own consulting business, I worked hard on a set of values and a mission statement. And yet, for my writing – which is infinitely more valuable to me – I did no such thing.

I took time to think about it. More than a week.

And the answer? Surprisingly simple and complex.

Resonance.

Through my writing, I want to bring to people the feeling that they belong. That their experience is a common one – beyond age, race and gender.

And that all of the things that come with being human – being vulnerable, scared, and uncertain – is not weak … but a valuable part of that human experience.

I’d be satisfied if my writing could bring this sense of belonging to people.

For with belonging, comes ownership.
And with ownership, comes opportunity for all of us to improve the world, recognizing there is a place for all of our talents.

There are a lot of great equalizers out there. I think art is one of them.
And I’m thrilled to discover my art can be part of that process.

pause

forever waxing and waning

does the moon dream
of a night where she
can pause
like the moment between
exhale
and inhale
neither preparing
nor recovering

better than neutral

to be
a
constant

Send/Receive

It's easy enough to click on the Send/Receive button in our Inbox. But, receiving is an undertaking that requires more than one would think.

My last month of work has been insightful in many ways. In order to get all my tasks completed, I've worked weekends this past month, often till eight pm on many nights. It was a reminder of how I really do need time for my own creativity in order to feel balanced.

I've also been the recipient of many gifts. Co-workers and members of my team have demonstrated their generosity in ways I could not imagine. Employees of non-profit agencies do not make the kind of salary their counterparts working for government make. And yet, in our agency, I have never known people as the ones in our agency who take the time to celebrate each other's accomplishments with shared meals and small tokens of appreciation.



The gifts I received were so personal, relevant to who I really am. There were books about writing, scarves from Somalia, home-made chocolate, a collection of speeches from Bishop Cesar Romero (The Violence of Love), a journal featuring the words of Rumi. On my last day of work, Maria walked into my office with a leaf-shaped platter laden with candies and cherries. She placed it on my table, saying "It's your last day of work. You'll have lots of visitors to your office. I thought you should have some treats to entertain them with. But, make sure you bring home the plate."




One co-worker framed an art-card of a chinese character of a quality that she thought I embodied. Strangely enough, though she has never read my blog (until now), she chose "Honour".





When I first started at the agency, I was overwhelmed by the complexity of this work with refugees and immigrants. Whether it was helping newcomers find housing, supporting families adjust to the school system, making newcomer youth feel like they were included or providing a space for the stories of those who suffered in wars -- my co-workers undertook it with passion and compassion. I was brought in to be a manager, but what could I possibly provide to these individuals who knew these people and their lives with an intimacy that takes years to develop?

Quickly, I decided my goal would be a simple one. When someone walked into my office -- client or staff member -- they should felt listened to.

Was that going to change the world? Likely no.
Was that going to change that person's life? Probably not.

I didn't have any strategic plans or a vision.

I simply believed people are given one moment - the present moment - to offer and receive. And that was one small way I could offer dignity and respect.

So, when the gifts started to turn up in my office, I realized it was my turn to receive. Not just to receive these thoughtfully chosen presents, but to receive my colleagues' hopes for my success in making time for writing.

Everytime I see these items, I will not only be reminded of them and their hard work and courage, but of how they bid me farewell with faith in my journey. Their gifts will remind me to remain true to myself.

Yes, these gifts come with a responsibility. A responsibility to make good use of their faith. But, it is a responsibility that I am grateful they have chosen to bestow.

Honor Thy Neighbour

They had no mercy
it was just a policy -- they said
of their government
this systematic destruction
of your homes, your language
your humanity

push you to the borders
stateless
without a hope

Canada
will take you in
land of the strong and free
yes – we know how you’ve paid for survival
with your blood, your love
your meaning

we want to help
with english classes and housing
and with finding jobs
for one year
one year
we can help

and just as you start to feel safe
to feel this place
could be where your family
has a future

we remind you of your promise
to pay us back

for your plane tickets
-- with interest --
for each child too
yes, we’ll need that money back

push you to the boundaries
of poverty
systematic destruction
of your opportunity, possibility
of your humanity
just a policy, you see
We have no mercy

***

Canada sponsors a small number of refugees each year who come from devastated countries where there has been severe loss through war, natural disaster or persecution for the people there. In fact, it is Canada's policy to identify and help those refugees who are *most* vulnerable, not simply those who will be able to "make it work" in Canada.

However, there is a policy dating back to WWII that requires that government-sponsored refugees pay back their airfare with interest. This burden is especially challenging for widows with large families or refugees with very little English or marketable skills trapped in low income jobs. (For example, many Burmese refugees lived in refugee camps in the jungle for twenty years before they came to Canada). These limitations, coupled with a fear of losing their status in my country, force refugee families to make decisions that compromise their quality of life and health.

Young teenagers focus on finding jobs to help their family instead of spending time on their studies. Mothers often work two jobs. One young man, now a leader in his community, shared how his family ate only one meal a day for many years to accomodate payments for this loan.

When asked why this "refugee transportation loan" policy exists, government representatives respond "over 90% of recipients pay back the loan, so we can't see there is a problem." Apparently, poverty, health issues, gang recruitment, low high school completion rates and food insecurity are not problems. And yet, many of these families have the determination and commitment to honor this oppressive loan repayment.

We are currently working to advocate for the removal of this refugee transportation policy loan. See this video clip of a news story in Edmonton for more information

(p.s. thanks to Hopper whose poetry in a similar form helped me create this piece)

Home

The Rocky Mountain Range is a four hour drive away. You can’t see the mountains from my city, but there comes a point during that long drive where the roads become a bit more windy and the inclines a bit more steep. Your car rounds a corner, climbs a small hill, and all of a sudden, the low clouds on the horizon materialize into a mountain range.

My favorite haunt in the mountains is Jasper, a small town yet untouched by much commercialization, even though it is a busy tourist spot. I was pleased to see MacD’s had been shut down.

The mountains mark the passage of time for me. I try to make it here every summer and have been doing so for the past fifteen years. I see which lakes rise and fall. I see the change in the colors of the waters. I wonder if it’s just the season or this year’s precipitation, though in my heart I suspect the cause is the damaging consequences of industry's over-production without check. And, I’m saddened that millions of years creation in the making are affected so quickly by our thoughtless influence.

When I’m in the mountains, it seems that I can’t get enough of the reflective nature of the mountain lakes, the immobility of the giants of stone, or the refreshing babble of the rushing rivers. The smell of mountain air carries a life and freshness in it, rejuvenation in every breath.

And as the weekend draws to an end, the chatter in the car usually dies down and we all fall into silence, hungrily devouring the scenery, knowing that too soon the mountain scenery will pass from our view.

Yet, as I pass the last mountain, I still can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief.

No longer enclosed, I feel like a weight has been lifted. I remember how much joy I get from watching the setting of the sun, the patterns of the clouds, the colors of the sky.

I love the mountains.

But, I’m at home with the horizons of the prairies.

Precipice Recurring

looking
searching

a horizon

waits
is waiting
has waited
is always waiting

to be noticed

the day has come
or
has it always been here?

I need not look for
the

t u r n i n g p o i n t

now
here
now

shed urgency
and the need to act

I will not miss it

it will present itself
every day
in every moment

if I know how to look for it


--------

*thanks to Michael for his posting Mark This Day which helped inspire this poem

A Day About Town

On March 31st, I had to wait in line for ninety minutes to buy over a thousand dollars worth of bus tickets for our youth programs.

March 31st is the last day of the fiscal year for most non-profit agencies in my province. For certain, I wasn’t the only one that day ensuring all of their allocated budget had been spent, so that the government didn’t come and take it back.

I had already bought five hundred dollars worth of office supplies, file folders and (my favorite!) disposable cameras for a group therapy project for some of our youth. Of course, it didn’t occur to me that those who have no disposable income – who get their disability checks or pensions on a monthly basis – have to always wait to the last minute to buy their bus passes. An eye opener for me. And a resulting long wait at the central transit station.

But you know what struck me most as I wandered about town?

The number of people out there, doing all a whole variety of things in the daytime - when I am usually sequestered away, working in my office.

I had to cut through city hall to get to the transit station and a visiting choir from South Africa was rehearsing on the main steps.

A local TV station was interviewing folks about springtime on the street corner.

The coffee shop across the street, attached to our main library, was packed with Edmontonians of all ages and genders and nationalities. Some conversing, others reading the paper or just listening to music.

And, then of course, all of us waiting in line. An elderly man behind me whistled an intricate tune, with verses, chorus and a bridge, happily behind me. For at least forty minutes.

How appropriate to have this day about town … especially since on the way to work that morning, I scoffed out loud at a radio station's ad that tried to sell itself. Their take? "Tune into us, it makes the day go by quickly.” A woman, one of their listeners, piped in cheerily, “When I listen to this radio station, next thing I know, it's the end of the day!"

End of the day? Who wants to live a life like that? That you want time to rush by instead of appreciating the course it runs through your life. Idealistic? Perhaps. But, who says we aren’t supposed to live life like that? Aspiring to be in each moment, rather than just tolerating it.

There are things to be tolerated, indeed – like teeth cleanings, soggy french fries, or aunts who ask me why I’m not married yet. But not the minutes of a day.

That was one thing I vowed – as I wrote this piece, standing in line, scribbling in my notebook, professional whistler behind me – that I would take some kind of action should I ever find myself wanting the day to pass me by without engaging in it.

Yes, I may be romantic or impractical. But I'd rather carry these faults then be ... too tolerant.

For my Fellow Austen-philes

What is it about Jane Austen that speaks to women over one hundred years later and across the world??

Every time I watch or read Pride and Prejudice, it never fails. Elizabeth Bennett utters some words that meant nothing to me before. Then all of a sudden, I have to lean back, take in a breath, and say “How did I miss that truth before?”

I find it both reassuring and disturbing that these characters speak to me. Disturbed that I can relate to a character whose context is a society where women needed dowries to get married and weren’t allowed to earn their own livelihoods. Reassured that the perplexities and dilemmas that I face are not mine alone. That women have faced them for generations and there must be an enlightened circle of women that can bestow their wisdom on me.

Recently, I watched BBC’s latest rendition of Sense and Sensibility, swept up blissfully in Marianne’s and Elinor’s story of love and loss.

Marianne – who shares her emotions openly – loves without abandon. But, when her heart gets broken, she suffers with just as much passion in public. She makes no excuse for who she is or how she feels, despite the discomfort she causes others with her honesty. It is tortuous to read what Marianne goes through, because she feels fully, without reserve, without holding back. There is a bravery in being so untempered.

But Elinor strikes at a reader’s heart too. She is subject to just as much betrayal and heartbreak, but suffers in silence. In an effort to be true to her sense of fairness for the one she loves, she keeps her heartache to herself. She doesn’t deny what she feels, but she accepts there is nothing to be done. No words of sympathy or tears will do anything for her pain. She just bears it. This type of stoicity and strength, even amidst one’s own loss, fills me with awe.

Over the years, I have alternately identified with these women, sometimes sympathizing with Marianne, other times with Elinor. Watching the latest film version, I was surprised to recognize myself fully in Marianne, only to find later in the week, that I had changed my mind and affirmed, that indeed I was more like Elinor. My opinion of who is braver alternates as does which of them felt things deeper. Then, I realize it didn’t matter. They are both real to me.

That is Jane Austen’s secret perhaps. She realizes that a woman’s soul is not so easily captured. It’s changing. Waxing and waning. Complex. A woman can be Marianne and Elinor. Elizabeth, Emma and Anne. All in one.

Which leads to another gift of Ms. Austen’s. We don’t have to be perfect heroines. We can be well-intentioned but foolish like Emma; judgemental but honest about our own limitations like Elizabeth and vulnerable in a way we can regret for many years – by letting ourselves be persuaded by others’ opinions rather than our own heart – like Anne.

Jane Austen reminds us that despite our mistakes, errors in judgement, and prejudice, we can still have – and deserve – happy endings.

And, after all these years of my mistakes, errors in judgement, and pride … I find that comforting.

Messy Jigsaw Puzzle

These past months, I have been under the illusion that whatever state of mind feels difficult to achieve must be the "right" state of mind.

On the days I want to succumb to anger, I convince myself it will not lead to a solution.
On the days I'm overwhelmed, I strive for serenity.
One the days I feel at peace, I question if the peace is true.

Pema Chodron says when we come across any kind of adversity in our lives, our first instinct is to look to be grounded.

Instead, she says, the answer is to recognize there is no answer.
There is no grounding. There is no certainty.

(Though it’s what we’re trained to do, right? Set Goals. Make Plans. Measure Success.)

Let it all go – she says.

No soothing of the chaos, no finding out who you are, no planting, and no pulling it all together.

No planting?? (I need to plant a little, says I).

Let things fall where they may. Succumb to the anger, be overwhelmed, feel at peace. All in the same day, if you must.

And the truth lies in what falls before you.

And, apparently this is what sets you free.
Not the answers.
But the experience of the questions.

Silence and Space

When you first meet the refugee families I’ve worked with – these people who have been witness to horrors of war and unjust persecution – you start off silent. Afraid to ask the questions – and afraid to hear the answers – you offer a smile, a shared laugh, a face to recognize when they step through the doors. And that’s how the relationship begins.

Silence is key.

It gives them space to share their story. Not the politics, not the religion, not the sequence of national events. But the who, what and where of the territory in their heart.

My co-workers and I are sometimes entrusted with this history. We honor it, cradle it respectfully in our consciousness and live the story again with them, sometimes with tears, sometimes with pride.

I no longer see a Sudanese mom, a Burmese father, or a Somalian teenager. I see questions – What was your journey here? Who are your loved ones? What brings you strength when you are weary? I see stories now, not people. Unheard, but not unwritten.

Then, there is always that one recounting that makes me realize I am no longer just holding their story. I am changed.

As my own days at my agency draw to a close, I have been able to put aside the timesheets, invoices and cashflows and return to how I was during my first months there. If someone walked through my door, I’d turn away from the computer and the list of tasks and the two-week-old messages-yet-unreturned and stop to listen to the person in front of me.

When I started, I knew it was the only way to learn anything. And, now that I am leaving, I remember it is still the only way to learn anything. And with the renewal of this practice, my spirit starts to move again.

The wise and experienced in my field – those who have sustained themselves over the years – have observed that every time we listen to those who have suffered and triumphed, it lights a flame within us … whether it be of compassion, horror, anger, or hope. If we do not do something with this heat and fire, we risk burning out.

Perhaps it is this blaze that I’ve been holding for so long that is moving, flickering again within. I’ve been stifling it under proposal deadlines and media releases and staff turnover. And, as I leave the agency – now that I have time and space – maybe this flame can be used for something. Many of my colleagues turn to policy change, activism, song, dance – some form of expression to reflect how our daily life has been transformed from hearing the words of these survivors.

I am overwhelmed by the simple moments from over the last two years that are suddenly revealing themselves as something more. These moments will transform themselves, I am sure. It’s the fire within that will help in its rebirth. Maybe into poems, blog postings, short stories, editorial letters or even an informal re-telling over coffee with a neighbour – or a politician.

It is not with an easy heart that I leave my agency to make space for my art, for my writing.

But I recognize by making space for my words, I’m making space for the words of the families I have worked with. These words that have left a loving mark on my living story.

And I realize – perhaps – I am not leaving the most important part of my work behind, after all.

freedom

he shuffles through the halls
english books
clutched to his chest

head down, slightest of smiles
afraid to be asked
should he not understand

and even if so
afraid his accent
would render the answer useless

but today would be different
as he stood in front of his class
bow cradled in his palm
violin tucked under his chin

as it had so many times at home
in his land left behind
but not forgotten

notes sing sweetly
with an eloquence
he does not have in the
clunky awkward language
he studies

finally limited only
by what he chooses
to express
or not
his heart unfettered

in their delight and awe
he finds recognition
for who he was
and who he still is

hope stirs within

this new world
still might hold
that sacred gift
which keeps him
trying

Planting Season

meetings multi-tasking and deadlines
a knock on the door
_____ every twenty minutes
each task generating
_____ six more

urgent phone calls
crisis and decisions
trying to be
human in it all
efficient, effective compassion
.
.
.
take a step back
a plethora of options
teaching volunteering resting travelling
overseas south remote away
escape leave chase pursue
.
.
.
conscious that
every choice
is a renunciation
maybe a thousand

I stay
to learn to be
rooted
in myself

Branding Myself

This is the Year of the Rat.

A friend of mine pointed out that the Year of the Rat comes once every twelve years. And if you’re going to make big changes in your life – especially new beginnings – this is the year to do it.

Coincidentally, in a couple of months, I will be launching into self-employment. The plan is to work from home – control my own workload (which is nearly impossible in the non-profit sector) – and consciously create more space for writing.

In my working world, I have created a reputation for myself as a bit of a drifter. At Christmas parties, I am often greeted with “How are you? What job are you in now?” In an effort to show that I am serious about my new venture, I met with a graphic designer who will be creating my logo. And, my brand. Not that I fully understand the difference, but apparently there is one.

We sat for nearly 90 minutes. He asked many questions. I attempted to answer them.

- What will make your business different?
- How do you want people to feel after working with you?
- What are your values in your work?

He goes away and creates a logo with different shapes, colors and fonts based on what he heard.

I am fascinated by this process.

How do I portray myself?
And does this match how I see myself?
Or does this all just depend on if the graphic designer and I have the same definition of the words “grassroots” , “health promotion" and "social justice"?

Will the logo have earthy tones? Vibrant colors? Shapes of trees and leaves or maybe a globe? I know he won’t come back with a hummer or a dollar sign …but what?

And what if we, as individual persons, had to meet with a graphic designer to create a brand for us as people? It would be interesting, wouldn’t it?

Because it is a small business – to be built mostly on reputation – I told him I wanted the logo to represent more of who I am … not what I do. I really have no plans to grow. The goal is to make enough money to survive so that I have time to create.

In the end, I gave him my blog address. I picked these pictures, these colors, these quotes. This blog is a good representation of how I see myself.

Or, at least, how I want to be seen.

Or, maybe ... a fine balance of both.

Untitled

let the water take me
running on
running free

dip my hands into
its flow
time as its current

meaning left behind
like the bedrock
under sand

cooling off
moving on
letting go

create
anew

**

a little poem inspired by Human Being's series of pictures
her blessings spread in many ways ...

New Rules

When I was younger, I believed in saving the best for last.

Like pies.
I’d eat the filling first and leave the crust.

Partially, this decision was influenced by a lesson taught to me early in my household ... never, ever were we to waste food.

But, I also had superstitions around it. Even if I was too full to truly enjoy it, I wanted the last taste lingering in my mouth to be the buttery, crumbling pastry. Or the sweet pieces of mango I saved from the fruit salad. Or the outside layers of my ice cream sandwich.

As if the joy it bestowed would last a little longer that way.

The other day, I ordered a butter pecan square.

I specifically requested the corner piece. Its edges were burnt a little and I knew it would be crispy on the outside and chewy on the inside. Perfect.

But this time, I decided to eat all of my favorite parts and throw away the rest.

Life’s too short to be inconvenienced by what you never wanted in the first place.

April Storms

My knuckles are tired.

For four hours, I gripped my steering wheel as an unexpected snowstorm battered the highway on a recent road trip.

Usually, my prairie landscapes are beautiful. The horizon stretches until all you see is a hazy line of blue and green curving in the distance, and I’m sure I see – not just know – that the world is round.

But when the snow descends and the wind arrives, the pair are relentless. Suddenly, in the middle of the day, headlights are a necessity. Even when the snow stops, the gales recycles the drifts, blowing them across the road like wisps of memories. Whirling them up to confront you in fury.

In the ocean of white, I could only see the road ahead of me for a couple of meters. And, sometimes even that disappeared. So, I relied on the grey volkswagon in front of me which appeared and reappeared in the hazy clouds ahead.

It’s frightening to drive with no sense of direction … I had to physically restrain myself from stopping. But, even if the snow didn’t erase all remembrance of shoulders on the road, I knew someone was following me, the way I followed the volkswagon. I dared not stop.

I kept the foot to the pedal on faith. Hoping that the car ahead of me knew where it was going and that we were all being led to the same place. Trying to ignore the abandoned vehicles in the ditches on the side of the road, knowing they had likely relied on faith too.

Sometimes, for half a minute, the winds would stop and all was calm. I could see ahead for kilometers. And, then the eerie realization dawned on me. It wasn’t just me, the volkswagon ahead, and the car behind trying to make our way --- but a whole caravan of travellers, filling the roads as unseen companions.

Then the winds came back and all was white again.

Spring blizzards.

By the end, I feel it’s my landscape that has been scourged by the storm.

In those tense moments, I apologized for all the injuries I incurred. I forgave all the hurts that came my way. And all I have left is love and gratitude for … this.

Storms are good for that.
But, I’m still exhausted.

True

when wishes are spoiled
and hopes disfigured, I ask

is there a lesson yet unlearned?
did I miss Karma's cue?

but in the darkness
I am reminded

I mapped my own course
true to the North of my compass

and a star reappears

for no matter how rough my path
it still belongs to me

and I am proud
to own it

trying

I am only a writer

I score my reality

with my pen



reflect life’s images

back to you

like that of a

lake still



shimmering before you

clear

clean

complete



but water – like truth –

is inconstant

___ constant moving

__________moving in

__________moving through

my emotions



I am only human

my words are human too

Yes, I read my horoscope more than a creative writer should ... but you can't tell me there isn't value in pondering this one:

If you don't articulate your conscious desires,
your unconscious patterns will come true.

... now if I could only figure out which one to tackle first - conscious or unconscious ?? I feel like it's a treasure waiting to be discovered ...

spring has sprung

My little prairie city is managed by strange weather gods.

A week ago it snowed.
Today, it was plus twenty degrees Celsius.

With the sun out and about, I wrote and read outside -- usually a rare event in April for my province. I'm not usually home long enough to see them, but I finally got to meet the two small hares that I know frequent my yard.

It's a small miracle, considering I live smack dab in the middle of the city.












As the evening progressed and the sunlight deepened into twilight, I grabbed my camera and visited one of my favorite haunts today.

People sometimes tire of our flatlands, but we have a secret gift that only comes out when the sun rises and sets ... the canvas of our sky.

When I need to

I look to the skies

and I am reassured

all is

as it should be

Blessings upon your week, friends.

one and the same

I can breathe again.

For the last six weeks, I’ve been suffering from a flu virus that alternately bestowed symptoms of coughing, low grade fever, stuffed sinuses, (repeat, repeat, repeat, etc.).

At first, I thought I was suffering from burnout. Then, I wondered if eating well and exercising was a myth. This was followed by a suspicion that something was wrong with my immune system.

Yesterday, I was told this year’s flu lasts four to six weeks. A sigh of relief. I’m not a wimp.

In the finale, I spent the last five days at home sick. Today is the first day I can breathe. More importantly, I can laugh without breaking into a fit of coughing. That’s what I missed most – laughing.

I embraced it all, when I was sick ... all modes of healing and all faith belief systems.

I’d switch from Buckley’s cough syrup to fresh ginger, from Sinutab to accupresssure. Sometimes, I’d have faith in the body’s natural defense systems and do nothing at all – let the fever run, I’d say. Boil those viral bugs! Made appointments with my doctor. Booked some time with my acupuncturist.

I started off with meditation – embracing the pain and suffering, realizing how lucky I’ve been to be healthy, when I was healthy. After a while, I went to the Judeo tradition and started bargaining with God. “Come on,” I’d say. “Next month, I promise to kickbox twice a week and no more junk food. Just get me out of this hell.”

Back to my Catholic roots, I comforted myself by thinking if I died, I’d get resurrected anyway. And, if that didn't work, I supposed reincarnation was an option, since I’m nowhere near Nirvana.

In the end, it was a combination of everything that got me through the last six weeks. I’ve always believed that there is no one set of rules, no one correct spirituality. When all is dark – you just have to believe. It’s the faith that matters.

… and maybe eating lots of garlic.

the exchange

I have no seeds to spare,
I gently told the crow,
You flew into my realm
sowing stories upon the wind
weaving color into my day

though I have little of value
to offer in exchange

For I have no seeds to spare,
my hands are rough with work,
but I can guide you where
a spring runs fresh and
bursts forth in words and grace

though it’s not mine to share
nor to give, just to show

I have no seeds to spare,
my back is bent from toiling,
but I can lead you to a meadow
where I’ve found certainty
that there is greater and there is good

though this trail can be tangled
and rough to travel

I have no seeds to spare,
I whispered to the crow,
and offer endless skies
for you to soar and find your way
and collect more tales to tell

though only with my heart’s wish
that you’ll return to me

before the harvest comes to pass
when I’ll have seeds to spare

choosing words

They had experienced loss.

With only one suitcase of clothes, they had arrived in Canada, survivors of oppression for being part of an ethnic minority under Saddam’s rule in Iraq. They carried samples of spices that hinted of their homeland and left behind a mother, who lamented their pursuit of writing, the cause of their parting. His three years of prison, for the crime of writing poetry, was one of the reasons they decided to finally flee.

But they had their children. And they had each other.

Ten years later, a new language on their lips and a new home in their hearts, I am privileged to know them. They are committed people – to their community, to their writing, and to one another. They are older now, in their mid-fifties, their children integrated into Canadian life.

Is it because English is still new to them that their words ring with honesty?

“Did your husband tell you I saw him yesterday?” I asked the wife. “No, no.” She looked up at me, reaching to place one hand gently on my cheek. “He did not tell me he saw your beautiful face. I did not even talk to him yesterday.” Her r’s roll in a deep rhythm. “We are so in love you see. People in love don’t need to talk to each other every day.”

I nod with a genuine smile, accepting their expression of romantic love that goes against contemporary portrayals.

I describe how her husband spoke to my writing class the other night about poetry.

The short cropped curls around her face bob up and down in enthusiasm. “Oh, I’m so glad. His poetry is very powerful, very beautiful. He is a deep thinker and a good man, my husband.”

My heart grew lighter. I knew this couple dealt with the regular stressors of most families. Too much work, not enough time. She wished she could see her kids more often. She wished she had more time to write. They struggled with sustaining a livelihood, their family and their art. But, always the same words of love and admiration come from her lips, and just as often, from his in return.

No eye rolling, no complaining, no resentment.

Their words are uttered in the midst of the lunchroom, by the filing cabinet, sometimes even in the hallway. But, I am amazed at their power to create hope in me. They are simple words. They only seek to share their life as it really is.

But, the words are a testimony that lives can be fashioned to match our values, and not the other way around.

The words they choose – in every day conversation – make a difference in my life.

And it reminds me – the words I choose everyday – can make a difference in others.

Gentle Surprises

I'm much too sick to write anything coherent, so in lieu, I'm posting a picture of this baby panda that my friend, San, sent me. She saw him (her?) in China last year.




I don't know what it is -- but this picture fills me with such wonder. Like I'm five again. Like the world still has surprises for me. You know - the kind of surprises that aren't exploited by paparazzi, Oprah, or the news. Gentle surprises.

Too bad the panda isn't my totem animal ...

trust in the night

twilight uncloaks
moon’s shadow
hanging
waiting
unlit in dusky blue

inviting doubt
to reveal herself
in ways she dare not
in harsh rays
of daylight

hold out your hand
to her murky thoughts
forbidden
untrusted
place faith in where she guides you

unveil
the
manufactured
rationale

‘til only truth remains
in the night sky
a jewel
instinctive
leading you home to
your genuine self

time is but the stream i go fishing in ...

that's what Thoreau says ...

Here are other wise words for writers or for anyone who has a passion and seeks to pursue it ...

My suggestion is that you start with the love and then work very hard and try to let go of the results. Cast out your will, and then cut the line.
- Elizabeth Gilbert

Interpreting Potlucks

“Ma, what is this?” I winced at the sharpness in my tone. I shouldn’t be raising my voice to my mother on the day Jesus rose from the dead.

“What do you mean?”

“What is this? What have you cooked here?”

“You know, the usual. Gravy, peas – ”

“Mom, I thought we discussed this. Tonight is potluck. We asked families to bring food.”

“What?” My mother tilted her head curiously, her lips pursed in a question.

“You were supposed to make a turkey.”

“Yes. It’s in the oven.”

“So – what’s this?”

“Well, I just thought some rutabega would be nice.”

“And the peas?”

“The girls don’t like some kinds of vegetables, so I cooked them peas.”

“And the stuffing?”

“The stuffing goes with the turkey. It’s really the same thing.” Not quite, but I let that one go. Turkey without stuffing did seem strange.

“And the rice?”

“Some people don’t like potatos.”

“You cooked the potatos?” I took a deep breath. “The plan was for me to come over and make the mashed potatos. The point of a potluck, Mom, is so that you don’t do too much work and get sick again. You always over do it.”

“Well,” she looked away now and moved to the sink, realizing I had caught on. “You’re so busy these days and you’re coughing. Anyway, they’re ready to be mashed. You can mash them. I’ll watch.”

“I don’t like it when you watch.”

“Why not?”

“Because you criticize how I cook.”

“No, I’m just watching.” She smiled prettily at me.

“Why is there asparagus out?”

“I thought …”

“No, Ma. No. No asparagus. Put the asparagus back. Chris is cooking eggplant, Irene is bringing noodles, Ian is bringing spring rolls. We don’t need asparagus.”

My eye caught something glistening in the toaster oven. “Oh, Lord. Ma – is that a ham in the oven? You cooked a ham?”

“We won’t serve it. It’s just in case.”

“Just in case what?”

“Just in case we run out of food. Your Daddy said to cook it.”

“When have we ever run out of food?”

She furrowed her eyebrows together. “It’s not nice to run out of food, honey.” Despite her words, her tone implied we were talking about the apocalypse.

I looked around helplessly. “Do they have potlucks in the Philippines? I mean, is there a word for potluck in Filipino?”

“We do potlucks.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Not really.” It was my mother’s typical way of answering questions.

“They don’t do potlucks? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Sure, you can.” She made it sound like I had just asked her if Filipinos liked jumping into a pit of hot fire. “But, you shouldn’t ask people to come over and then ask them to bring food with them.”

Even though my Mom had lived in Canada for over forty years, I still sometimes found myself amidst cultural negotiation. “It’s okay Mom. People do potlucks here in Canada. It’s normal. It’s polite. Just like it’s normal and polite to serve pizza at birthday parties.”

She looked at me in disgust.

“It’s not polite to cook so much for potlucks.” I tried to lay it out as clear as I could. “It makes the people bringing food wonder why they took the time to cook. You don’t want people to feel like they wasted their time.”

My words were met with a chilly silence.

I sighed. “I know, Mom. I know. You show love through your cooking.”

She frowned at me. “That’s not the only way I show love.”

“But it’s your favorite way.” She shook her head at me, as if I was being disrespectful. In her eyes, I probably was. Telling her that she cooked too much was like telling her she loved too much.

Suddenly, the front door opened and my sister and brother-in-law swept in, their three kids trailing noisily behind them.

My sister surveyed the kitchen and said, “Mom, what is this?”

I walked over and pulled my sister aside before she could take it all in. “Next year, let’s have Easter at your house.” I paused and watched my mother’s delight at the kids ooh-ing and aah-ing over the spread of food before them. “Mom can keep Christmas dinner. She’ll be heartbroken if she can’t overfeed us at least once a year.”

The Unexpected Tell

She had gotten used to it. Meeting a person and sensing the possibility. Smiling and nodding, attempting to please and be pleased. Searching for something in how he held his coffee cup, how he addressed the waitress, how he held up his end of the conversation. But, always, waiting for the moment when she split into two. One half leaned forward at the table, legs elegantly crossed, engaged in conversation. The other half slumped back, stuffing her hand into her pocket, clutching her car keys. Give it a chance, one side coaxed. You’re not going to find magic in half an hour. But the other sighed, tired of looking for things to say and things to respond to. They all ended that way. A distracting dialogue between heart and reason. So, it took her by surprise when at the close of one evening, she found herself in the moment in front of her. She found herself with him and nowhere else. And, that’s how she knew. She found that in his company, she was one.

Stillwater

My younger cousins, Vikki and Nessa, know me well. For Christmas, they bought me a gift certificate to Chapters and last weekend, I finally went shopping to treat myself. The parking lot was crowded ... though it seemed there were more people in the coffee shop than in the actual store. But, perhaps I was looking through my cynical-colored glasses, so I tried to blame it on the scope of the super-book-shoppe.

I picked up "Letters to a Young Poet" by Rainer Maria Rilke and wandered through the children's section. I stumbled across this book and had to have it. "Zen Shorts" by Jon J Muth. Everyone should have this book.

The Giant Panda, Stillwater, shares stories of enlightenment and love. And the Zen Shorts have no goals, no objectives, no terms of reference -- just a challenge to look at our life with a different lens. What would life on Earth be like if we all taught that skill to our children?

My favorite line in the book: "He spoke with a slight panda accent."

freedom

her dark lashes wet
with hiccuping
breaths

grief in every syllable
dauntless in her display

they’re lost
she cried
my ribbons

we moved about the kitchen
with sympathy and promises

assured she would forget
amidst the colored pencils

we rinsed the dishes
and swept the floor

concealed
our envy for

the salty drops
beholden to none

no obligation to hope
no duty to common sense

to weep as
when you were four