calling, calling
I have heard
the whispers too long
deaf to their demands
they shift their form to
rustling of the grass through my fingertips
crunching of broken leaves under my steps
and I remember
I’ve missed listening
truths they speak
power of expression
humility of a gift
challenge of capturing
that one moment
that one breath
chiding, chiding
bestowing a blessing
a responsibility
creation
create
care
about the calling
that I alone cannot answer
until my words connect to
another
and complete
their purpose
so I can complete mine
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Saturday, August 23, 2008
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.
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
Friday, August 15, 2008
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
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
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
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
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
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
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.
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.
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.
Friday, July 25, 2008
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
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
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
untitled
One thin sliver of green
fluttering in the wind
barely whispering
But when all the
leaves chorus together
A joyous storm results
fluttering in the wind
barely whispering
But when all the
leaves chorus together
A joyous storm results
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