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