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
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
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
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
Monday, May 5, 2008
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
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
Thursday, May 1, 2008
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.
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.
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