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.