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.