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

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.

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.

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