once i paused

my totem showed herself today
her counsel undeniable
you search within to find your way
my totem showed herself today
i listen, look for shades of grey
but brooding dampens not the pull
my totem showed herself today
her counsel undeniable

the city speaks

Sometimes, I see glimpses of the Edmonton I grew up in

... and I feel hopeful

check out this testament to the quirky city that still

may lie buried under the oilsands ...

(here too for more recent additions)

small town shots

less than an hour's drive away is another world ...

remnants of a history we forget

or choose to be indifferent to

too consumed by our boom

the wise ones know it will just fade away

and we'll be left with what

made us rich in the first place

do i need a reason

wordplay
----------- on the
--------------------- white screen
------------------------------------ are my -
--------------------------------------------- scales
------------------------------------------------------- and my

---------------------------------------------- ------------ arpeggios,

-----------------------------------------------------------testing
---------------------------------------------------- my
--------------------------------------- ability
-----------------------to crescendo,
- ----------soften
volumes
------------of my
------------ -------- meanings
-------------- -------- ------------- to a whisper,
----------------- ------- -------------------------- ---- so when
------------------ -------- ------------------------------------- I
------------------- ------ ------------------------------- am
-------------------- ------------------ inspired
--------------------- -- to perform
------- my magnum
opus


------------------------------------ -- it sings --

words are not enough

There’s a shocker.

For a writer to say words are not enough.

But, it’s true. I love writing. It’s my compass, my grace, my touchstone – to be part of that creation process. But, there’s the rub. It’s a process. And, when there’s an immediate need to express emotions – experience them raw and untouched – the process of fixing words on a page … like a captured photo's emergence … just doesn’t cut it.

(wonder what my writer friends will say about this one)

This week at work, an opportunity presented itself for me to get re-acquainted with frustration. I don’t usually want to shake people, gently or violently, but I literally had an internal dialogue concluding that “shaking someone” would not be perceived as professional.

As luck would have it, I had kickboxing class that night.

Everyone should take kickboxing. Especially women.

Early early on, women are taught not to use force. As girls, no one dares us in the backyard to fling things as hard as we can, to punch each other in the stomach and see if we can take it. And, yet, there’s something very powerful about knowing your own strength. Knowing you’re even capable of strength.

Three years ago, when I started kickboxing, I tentatively threw punches into the air. Now, I don’t leave class unless I’m out of breath, completely dripping with sweat, and have slammed my elbow, knee or fist into a punching pad so hard that it hurts -- just a little.

The other night, our instructor decided we needed a good workout. Combinations. Jab, left uppercut elbow, right downward elbow, double knee, then finish it off with a roundhouse kick -- using your core muscles to pivot your shin into a kicking pad. And, because of the kind of day I had, I delivered my strikes as hard as I could.

I didn’t want to diffuse the frustration. I wanted to use it. To know it was real, so I don’t disguise it as a bad day or my own emotionality. That frustration was present and consequently, I am so sore today, it hurts to laugh.

It’s a good reminder, this pain … a reminder of what I don't want to experience again.

Pain has its purpose too.

I am no poet ...

Ah! Valentine’s Day descends upon us.

The poor man who may try to woo me … Valentine’s Day would be such a conundrum.
I’m anti-consumerism (no store-bought cards).
I’m lactose intolerant and all too aware of the cocoa industry (no chocolate).
I have allergies (no strong smelling flowers).
And don’t even get me started on diamonds …

I mean, what did people do before Hallmark came along? Did they actually have to reach inside themselves to express their emotions?

Serenade. Recite a poem. Draw a picture. Or even undertake a kind act. Thoughtfulness at its most.

I won’t be a total humbug and write off Valentine’s Day altogether.

But, if you celebrate it – I only ask you celebrate it authentically.

As for me, I’m going to share a piece I wrote a while back. It was Gibran who said: “The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.”

** ** ** **

I am no poet. I don’t know how to make my words sing with joy or sear with pain. I tell stories.

The words describe a place, a time, and a character. They tell you what happened and how. Then the magic begins. You ask why, wonder what happened before, and start to hope for their future. It’s beyond my control.

But there are days, when it’s hard to surrender to writing. It’s hard to let faith guide you to the words, sit back and watch as your characters determine their course. On the days where my own life seems like its sailing into unchartered territory, the unpredictability of creative writing seems too much to bear. I’d rather retreat into my scientific reports where I test hypotheses and provide a simple answer: yes or no. The theory is true – the theory is not. Simple writing.

Steven King said “Writing is a support system for life.” But, on some days I don’t know how to hook it up. I know not where the pen goes or the paper; it’s a tool that I know is vital to my being, and yet, all I can do is blindly cling to them, hoping that someone will come along and show me how to tap its power.

So, I write blindly. Not looking at the screen – speaking straight from my mind to my fingers. Not pausing to look at sentence structure, form or function. A type of spoken prose, I guess. A storytelling of my own with no audience. Just me and my inner writer. Somehow trying to reach out to her to show me the way back to myself.

And slowly, my writer points the way. She shows me that you can’t always create when happy. That creation out of pain and disappointment is just as – if not more – powerful than creation out of pleasure. For, just as much as your audience connects to hope and optimism, to promise and potential; each reader can connect to sorrow, regret, lingering doubts and times of confusion.

It is important to write about these too.

It is important to remember that forging forward, without a path, is describing life in its truest, most painful, but most real form. That sometimes, you just have to remember that there is joy and a sweet kind of love, and the mere memory of its existence is what drives you forward.

This is real life. And so, even though I cannot write about my characters, their place, or their story, I can write about what I know at some point in their journey they will experience. And remember that I – as they – will make it through.

** ** ** **

Happy Valentine's :)

RF

addiction to doing

I lent out one of my foundation books and I'm now wishing I hadn't. I should have two copies of those kinds of books. One for easy reference. One to give out.

i'm looking for wise words that heed us against
keeping busy
making decisions
taking actions

... ing
... ing
... ing

we need to choose to watch
to wait
and see things as they really are

Some wise words from William Stafford ("You Reading This, Be Ready")

What can anyone give you greater than now, starting here, right in this room, when you turn around?

Guilty until proven ....

My co-worker thinks I’m very “African” in the way I make decisions and reflect on life. I pray a little. I do some meditation. I consult my horoscope. It seems a bit odd, but I think it’s the scientist in me, using multiple methods to see if I come back to the same answer each time.

My horoscope for this week made me laugh out loud. Have a read:

Whether or not you're a Catholic, I recommend a good stiff dose of confession for you. It's the most effective action you can take to clear out your psychic congestion and prepare the way for an influx of cathartic realizations. So find someone who won't judge you for your so-called sins, and tell him or her about things you've done in the past year that make you feel squeamish or guilty. If there is no such person, confess to a beloved animal, a favorite tree, a passing cloud, or the morning sun.

Let me tell you, being raised as a Filipina-Catholic, I consciously avoid thinking about guilt at all costs. Guilt has had its share of unnecessary space in my life, so I give it a wide berth.

I like to think of guilt as a rough ocean. It has its own swells and dips and power and purpose. But, it’s not something you go and romp in, you know? You don’t say – hmmm … what a beautiful day, let’s go douse myself in some guilt … I appreciate its role, but keep a fair distance from it, knowing the damage it causes through misplaced responsibilities and unnecessary fear.

But, it seemed an interesting exercise, so I tried it.

And, wow, was I ever surprised. I went back to February 2007 and uncovered thirteen things I felt guilty about.

Then, I realized that only two of them were things I could actually work on.

The rest were ridiculous. Laughable. Creating subconscious barriers that are likely holding me back from what I know is right for me …

Try it out sometime … I’d be interested to hear your experiences.

Advocacy - The Sequel

On Monday morning, I had another meeting with a large institution. This time in the health field.

I was tired from the weekend, fighting off a cold with fluids and Cold-FX, and most of my colleagues in this meeting were in the same chapter (not quite on the same page) as the community agencies. So, it wasn’t a bad meeting.

And yet … I came out of the meeting feeling like I had been hit by a truck.

I felt unease for the next couple of days, kind of like when one wears a sweater that is too snug around the back. It’s livable, but not comfortable. Last night, I was reading a book by one of my favorite authors – Jon Kabat-Zinn – and then it became clear.

In my earlier entry, I wondered if I was too “black and white” for advocacy work.

That’s not it at all. I’m too “grey” for advocacy work.

I love greys. If there’s ambiguity, I pursue it, explore it, expand it. I like to think there isn’t one answer to everything and that there are possibilities that haven’t yet been discovered. I don’t like absolutes. I detest singularity.

But in advocacy work, you have to maintain a pretty firm line – at least in meetings. Give it up, just an inch, it might become a foot. And, so you hold firm to your stance, pushing and challenging. Greys are seen as a sign of weakness in these situations.

Where is the room for saying – “This is what I think, but I could be wrong … what do you think?”

Unless you can find other colleagues around the table who see that as an invitation to find a collective solution, rather than an opportunity to strengthen their position.

And there's the whole notion of expertise. Sometimes, others come to the table and say “we’re an expert on such and such”. You feel painted into a corner. What are you an expert on? I say “working with immigrant communities”. When the truth is – I hold to the belief that the only expert in community work, are the communities themselves ... that when people … any people… are given the opportunity to participate meaningfully in their own community, good will result.

I’m an expert in understanding I’m really not an expert at all …

Yeah, those kinds of fundamental beliefs are difficult to fit in advocacy situations.

… at least this week …

Ad-vo-ca-cy

Part of my job is advocating.

[Advocacy is the act of arguing on behalf of a particular issue, idea or person]

In order to stay employed, I won't go into details. Except that I met with representatives of an established institution that seemed to think that "dialoguing" meant coming in with an agenda and not asking the other people at the table what issues needed to be resolved.

We spoke two completely different languages. They used words like "discipline" and "order" ... phrases like "success rates" and "statistics show" ...

We used words like "give voice to" -- "represent" -- "relationships" -- "persons" -- "potential"

I believe in causes, but how does one know if they are cut out for advocacy work? I found myself thinking - as they droned on - about how my principles are too black and white for facilitating movement within a system. For if I'm getting angry when they're actually *trying* to reconcile with us, how could I survive if we were actually at odds?

Then my thoughts got really silly. Three men sat there, all dressed in their power suits and cuff links, the pinks and soft blues in their ties accented by their pastel-colored dress shirts. They leaned back into their chairs, their arms in wide expanses, telling me and my colleagues what we needed to do. Their hair was slick and neat, their blackberries smartly arranged beside their papers.

I pondered - should *I* have dressed up? Should I have actually blow-dried my hair instead of letting it dry in the car on the way to work? Brushing it once in a while would help, I suppose. Do these shiny dangly earrings and knit wool sweater make me look more like a hippie, rather than a manager of respected services in our city? They claimed to be "experts" in their own field. How does one dress to be an expert in working with immigrant communities? Or does it instead intimidate them - seeing how differently we operate -- that our idea of appropriate wardrobe for a meeting doesn't even match?

Advocacy through wardrobe - is it an option??

Then, with a start, I'd realize I wasn't listening and I'd make myself focus on their words ... and discovered I hadn't missed much at all ...

To find a way to advocate without succumbing to cynicism ... or to planning my wardrobe ... that seems to be my challenge.