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.

foibles and friends

(as told in a storytelling competition last summer)

In University, Imran was my best friend. You know how friends bring out the worst and best in people? Well, Imran was my best friend because he was best at bringing out my worst.

The other thing that brings out the best and worst in people is camping. Sharing a tent and communally making meals tells you a great deal about a person’s character.

So, one weekend after the not-very-bright idea of bringing Imran on a camping trip, and surviving the multitude of arguments that ensued -- on the long drive home on Highway 2 -- my other friend, Julia, and I shared the observation (out loud, of course, to Imran himself) that Imran was a closet chauvinist.

Imran’s response was a big, snorting guffaw.

“Look,” I said. “You’re Mr. City Boy who’s camped - maybe twice in your life - and yet, who insisted that they should build the fire?”

Campfires. Now, there’s another good personality test – right up there with Myers-Briggs. Julia and I had baptized Imran with his new name — Prometheus — after the first night for bestowing his gift of fire to us lowly girly-girls.

“As if you’re not a city girl,” he retorted. He picked on me, cause he he knew Julia was untouchable. She had grown up in Stettler.

My back stiffened. “I am not,” I defended myself. In the nineties, I was granola through and through — way before it was hip to be earthy.

“I’ve certainly spent a lot more time outdoors than you,” I said. Imran was not the tree-planter type. The man was an expert on color-coordination, lived on chocolate covered coffee beans and regularly called me up to say “need to cancel for tomorrow, gotta skip town, someone slashed my tires” or some variation on that. If anything, Imran was part of the brown mafia, but not the boyscouts.

He challenged me. “Oh yeah – and what kind of stuff have you done outdoors?”

I dove into the litany of the weekends I spent at my aunt’s cabin, picking saskatoon berries, going on tractor rides and catching toads so we could race them. I reviewed the camping and fishing trips with my family, squishing minnows onto fishhooks for bait, skipping rocks on the lake and burning my tongue with charred marshmellows. I was so-NOT a city girl.

“And?” he snapped. “A couple of days in the whole year. I say you’re still a city girl.”

I felt the blood rush to my ears. What kind of friend was this? Trying to tell me that he knew me better than myself?

(Of course, this is what real friends do, but I didn’t know that so early in my adult life.)

That’s when something inside me turned.

“I have a zoo degree, mister. I’ve had to climb trees, collect worms, and work my way through canola fields,” I pressed. He looked unimpressed. I clenched my teeth. “We even had to sleep overnight there.”

Julia piped up. “Canola?”

“Canola,” I said with finality.

“Oh, fine,” Imran said, defeat in his voice. “Sleeping in canola fields. I guess you’re not a city girl after all.”

“Thank you,” I said indignation vibrating in every part of me. And in no way, regretting that every word of the last sentence spoken from my lips had been a complete and utter lie.

I had wanted to climb up the trees, but my classmates insisted that I record the data. Sure, I collected worms – from my petri dish. And the canola field? Inspired by my view out the window.

It just took over me. I didn’t give it a second thought. The primal part of me (the part that felt five years old) wanted – no, needed – to win that argument. And it decided to disconnect my brain from my mouth and short-circuit it to something else.

Who said those words? I thought. And, then, it didn’t matter – it was eclipsed by the satisfaction of winning the argument.

It took a whole week to actually feel badly about the lie.

I confessed to Julia first.

“I was wondering about that,” she said. “Canola’s really itchy. I wasn’t sure how you could sleep there.”

Imran was not so forgiving. He wasn’t mad, just triumphant. And then, quite delighted to point out how, I – Roxanne – the Ms. Righteous Social Issues Activist — who sees the world in such clean lines of right and wrong -- had so easily descended into lying to win an argument.

The next couple of times we fought, he’d always counter with, “and how do I know you’re not lying about that?” … which lasted for about two years.

I’m not so harsh on liars anymore – politicians, movie stars, family and friends. There’s always popcorn gallery talk like “how could they lie like that??” and I’d respond with a simple “it happens.”

Who knows what “it” is… passion, fear, pride. The emotional prefix to a lie.

Sometimes, when I drive along Highway 2 and the bright shock of yellow canola fields break the monotony of green along the horizon, I remember my little indiscretion and I smile.

And, then, I always start to feel a little itchy.

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.