A black skirt and an old friend

I’m wearing one of my favourite skirts today. It’s long and black and funky, with embroidered designs and black beads around the bottom. It’s filmy and flowing – like a peasant skirt without the wrinkles.

I’ve had this skirt for about 14 years. It hung in the back of my closet for quite awhile, abandoned because the elastic was shot and I didn’t bother to fix it for a long time. But now it’s been revived and it’s back near the front of the closet where it gets pulled out and worn nearly once a week. I like to wear it with a black shirt and a purple silk scarf slung jauntily around my neck.

The skirt was a gift from Kari, my room-mate and best friend at the time. She spent a few months in London, during which time she sent me raunchy postcards from Soho, and when she came back, she brought me the skirt.

I miss Kari. I think it’s been ten years since I saw her. She came to visit me in the hospital when Nikki was born, and I think that’s the last I saw of her. Maybe because I got caught up in starting a family (Julie came shortly after Nikki, so I got a little overwhelmed), and got too busy to invest much energy in friendships, we drifted apart. She moved around a bit, I lost her phone number, and now I no longer know how to find her.

A couple of years ago, I was walking from work to the University to meet Marcel, and when I got there, he said “you’ll never guess who I just saw.” It was Kari, and she was carrying a little boy – her son. She was running late and didn’t have time to wait to see me, so I missed her. She didn’t leave her number. Poof, she disappeared again. I didn’t get to see her little boy.

I don’t have a very good track record for hanging onto friends. They either move away, or we drift apart, and I don’t bother to call. It makes me sad. I’ve had some incredible friends over the years – soulmates who own pieces of my heart – but I’ve let them float away into the great unknown.

Kari was one of the best. We had so much fun together. She brought out the “crazy” in me, because she was much more uninhibited than me. We told each other wild secrets, we kept each other sane when our other roommate was driving us crazy, we marched in protests together, we stayed up late laughing and concocting weird food combinations – we did all the things twenty-something girls are supposed to do when they share an apartment and haven’t gotten weighed down with a lot of responsibilities yet.

I think I should look Kari up again – call her parents or something. I need to let her know I still wear the skirt and I still think of her whenever I do.

Kari – if you stumble across this blog, call me.

When God shows up for church

God was at church Sunday morning. Imagine that! I don’t think God always bothers to show up at church, because people don’t necessarily want him there. Actually, he probably shows up anyway, and waits in the wings for someone to invite him in, but sometimes he leaves disappointed because no-one makes space for him.

This Sunday, he was there, eager to meet us when we arrived. It started with the music. He liked the music. I think he liked the fact that we mixed it up a bit and had the music team play from the back of the room.

He was there when I got up to welcome the gatherers. I could see him smiling from the rain outside the window. He chuckled while I prayed, and let loose a mighty crash of thunder just before I said amen.

He was there when Rob got up to speak too. I think he likes hearing Rob speak, because he knows authenticity when he sees it. He recognizes the humility in Rob’s heart, just like the rest of us do. Humility makes him feel like he's got something to work with.

When everyone was finished speaking and singing, and there was silence, he seemed especially happy. He likes it when we shut up for a change and let him get a word in edge-wise. He doesn’t always get it why we think we have to fill so much of our time with words. He keeps hoping that humans will evolve in our ability and willingness to communicate in the stillness.

He came with me to the centre of the labyrinth and knelt beside me on the floor. As I walked back to the edges, he stuck beside me, reminding me he’s not just a “centre of the labyrinth” kind of god. I didn’t talk much and neither did he. We just hung out as we walked. I enjoyed the company and he did too.

He was in the kids’ room too, watching them make shields out of cardboard and tinfoil. I think he probably has the most fun there, because kids know how to be real and don’t stop to worry about whether they’re “doing church right”. He likes to hear them laugh and he takes pleasure in the dancing and creativity. Sometimes, he just stays in the Kidventure room, because it gets a little stuffy and boring where the adults are.

He hung around after church too, because he really likes potlucks. There’s something about people gathering around a table, he says, that makes him want to stick around. Potlucks are some of his favourite moments, because people share food, eat together, have good conversations, exchange recipes, clean up together and just basically “do community” without putting on a big show or getting all formal on him.

Even after the potluck, he lingered, because he wanted to be with us while we celebrated the newest member of our church family. He loves celebrations – especially where children are concerned. There’s something about a baby celebration that makes him feel all warm and fuzzy and, most of all, hopeful.

After church, he climbed into our cars with us and offered to stick with us for the rest of the week. Some of us took him along, and some of us told him we’d prefer it if he’d stay at church until next Sunday.

(Note: feel free to substitute "she" for "he" in the above. I don't think God minds.)

Ummm....

So, Marcel, my dear husband, sent me this link today. Do you think perhaps he doesn't want me to jump? :-)

I guess it's just not my day today

First of all, I arrived at work on my bike (in biking attire), went to the bathroom to change into my work attire, and discovered that I'd forgotten to bring a shirt to wear under my blazer. So here I am, wearing my stinky biking t-shirt under a businessy suit. And wouldn't ya know it - there's a stain on the collar of the shirt because I wore this particular stinky sweaty biking t-shirt the last time I coloured my hair.

And why am I WEARING a businessy suit when I usually dress more casually? Well, I had to "work the booth" at a United Church conference this morning, and thus had to do some of that small talk that I loathe. Standing at a booth trying to engage people who are trying to avoid your eye is not my idea of a good time, ESPECIALLY when I'm feeling self-conscious about wearing a stained stinky sweaty bike shirt.

AND as I was walking to the conference - a little late because I'd tried to buy a cheap replacement shirt at a bargain store but had no luck - I decided to jaywalk to get there a little faster. I started to dart across the street, and realized that I would be obstructing the traffic that was turning and had the right of way. Not only that, but one of the cars stopped at the intersection was a POLICE CAR. Fortunately, he had better things to do than give me a jaywalking ticket.

I think I'll spend the rest of the afternoon in my office hiding in my stinky stained not-so-sweaty-anymore biking shirt.

Chatting with strangers

With 2 of our daughters on soccer teams which play on alternate nights, we spend a majority of our evenings sitting on the sidelines of soccer fields these days. It’s not a bad way to spend an evening. We usually bike there and back, so it’s been a great way to get the family out for bike rides. It’s been a pleasant spring – very little rain, and just a few really cool days.

Because we usually go as a family, Maddie has no choice but to come along. She doesn’t mind, especially when it’s a field with a play-structure close by or when Julie’s best friend’s little sister is there for her to play with.

Last night was one of those nights when there was neither play structure nor best friend’s little sister in the near vicinity. So, because she’s not particularly enthralled with soccer yet, she had to find her own entertainment.

For awhile, she borrowed books from the mom next to us who’d come well supplied with Dr. Suess books for her young daughter. Then she bugged me to get her soccer ball out of the car (the game was in Lorette – a little far to bike) and she played with that. Then, when she spotted three kids playing not far away, she ran off to join them. Before long, she’d offered up her soccer ball and they were making up soccer “rules” to imitate their older sisters.

Sometimes, I wish I had Maddie’s boldness. She has always assumed people will like her. Unlike our other 2 daughters, she has no qualms about marching up to unfamiliar children and engaging them in play. She happily borrows books from a strange mom, never worrying whether she is doing the “right” thing. She’ll speak to almost anyone, and only has very rare moments of shyness.

The thing is – when you go through life assuming people will like you, people usually DO. People are drawn to confidence and boldness. Maddie has always made friends easily, and so far I haven’t witnessed any kids being turned off by her straightforward approach. She’s not pushy or anything, just friendly. (No, she’s not perfect either – she WAS getting a little bossy with the soccer rules last night. :-)

I wish, when I entered an unfamiliar place full of unfamiliar faces, that I could be as bold as she is. I wish I could walk in, confident that when I stopped to introduce myself to a stranger, that person would quickly become my friend.

It’s not that I’m particularly insecure. In fact, I think I come across as quite confident. It’s probably a little ironic, though, that I’m more comfortable speaking in front of a large crowd than I am speaking one-on-one with a stranger. That’s probably why people assume that I’m confident – because I’m a fairly natural public speaker.

I’m just not a great conversation starter. I don’t handle small talk well. I worry about not being interesting enough. I worry about tripping over my tongue and coming across as stupid. I rarely assume people will like me, and usually assume they’d rather be talking to someone else.

I work at it, because I know that I’m always glad when someone takes the time to engage me in conversation and so therefore assume they’d be glad when I do the same for them. It’s just not a very natural thing for me, so it makes me feel awkward. Funny, I know, that I’ve chosen a career in communications when I have trouble talking to strangers at a party for fear of tripping over my tongue. The thing is, I can communicate quite confidently and boldly when I KNOW what I’m communicating about. I’ve even talked quite comfortably with Prime Ministers, because I had a purpose (it’s kinda fun telling Prime Ministers what to do :-). I just have trouble when I’m forging unfamiliar territory and “small talk” is my only tool. To tell you the truth, some people probably think I’m snobby, because I come across as confident on the stage, and then I don’t engage well in conversation when I get off the stage.

It’s the same thing for blogs. When I go on the “popular” blogs – the ones with 25 or more comments on a regular basis – I rarely leave comments. I assume they’ve got enough interesting people surrounding them – they don’t need boring old me. If I make chatty comments, and trip over my tongue/keyboard, perhaps they’ll think “what is SHE doing on my blog?” And yet, I KNOW it's silly, because I know how much I love and value comments, even if it's just a simple acknowledgement that you've been here.

I suppose we all have elements of insecurity. Some people are amazed that I can get up in front of a crowd and speak without stumbling, and then I, in turn, am amazed at how comfortable they are chatting with strangers.

Whew! I DO have passion after all!

According to the Triple P quiz, I am passion-driven. The problem is not (as I stated before) that I don't have passion, it's that I'm not "purpose-driven". No WONDER Rick Warren's humongous best seller (that nearly everyone else thinks is the secret to true happiness) sits half-read on my shelf! Which p are you? (passion, purpose, or profit driven)

Only 39 things to go

Well, I can strike one thing off the list.
That's right, I got my nose pierced! On my birthday. I wanted to do this when I was 20, but then I chickened out and convinced myself I didn't have the right nose for it. Lately, I started wanting it again, and now that I'm 40, it no longer matters whether my nose is "right" or not. That's the beauty of being 40 - you get a little more comfortable with who you are and a little less concerned about fitting other people's expectation of you.

I guess you could call it a mid-life crisis. At least it's cheaper than a fast car, and less disruptive (not to mention stupid) than an affair. :-)

Lucky me

I have the greatest sister in the world. She did 2 awesome things for my birthday. She posted this cool list of great moments we've shared. And she gave me these 40 things for my birthday...

As she mentions in the list, we've been to 3 plays together in London and 3 in New York, so a Playbill bag is just the COOLEST!

Thanks, ccap!

Ode to my 40 year old body, on its birthday

To my hands
You've been ever so faithful, all of these years. You've soothed the brows of feverish children, you've washed alot of dishes, and scrubbed alot of floors. You've carried burdens, and gotten dirt under your finger nails. You've proudly worn your wedding ring for nearly 13 years. You don't look so young any more - you look well used. It's the way you should look at 40. You've written alot of stories, with pen or keyboard. You may not be the originator of thoughts, but you've put them to paper many, many times.

To my feet, my lovely little feet
I've always loved you, my little ones. You've carried me so many places. You've climbed mountains and held me up on waterskis. You've run to catch airplanes and trains. You were always my pride and joy. I particularly loved the way you often fit into bargain bin shoes that most people couldn't squeeze into. You've let me down a little lately, though - made me buy orthotics and expensive shoes. I guess you're making up for all the money you saved me. But maybe I let you down by not taking enough care of you in my youth - by squeezing you into shoes that were too narrow. I put you to the test early on already - forcing you to walk more than 20 miles in the walk-a-thon when you were only six. Thanks for putting up with my need to wander.

To my eyes
Ah, my lovely eyes. I've always been happy that you were blue, and that you were steady and strong, never needing glasses (yet). You've seen alot of things these 40 years. You've stopped me in my tracks so that I wouldn't miss the beauty of a rainbow or a shimmering butterfly. You've cried alot of tears - tears of sadness, pain, joy, frustration, and shame. You've kept watch over our children and helped protect them from danger. You are faithful and true, my lovely blue eyes.

To my breasts
I'll be frank, my dear breasts - I've never been particularly fond of you. You're too big, too floppy, and you sag nearly to my waist. I've never been able to squeeze you into department store bras. You made me go to specialty stores to buy genuine over-the-shoulder-boulder-holders. You've caused permanent indentations in my shoulders because of your wieght. You are a burden. Ah, but perhaps I've been unfair, dear old things. You've patiently suckled three babies and provided plenty of milk to keep them healthy and happy. You were faithful and true, even when you ached or the nurses said your nipples were too flat to properly feed a baby. (Boy, did YOU prove them wrong!) You've carried the pain of unused milk when our little Matthew died. You've been steadfast and reliable, and I thank you for that, dear old breasts.

To the little crease between my eyebrows
I'm not quite sure what I think of you, little crease. You're one of the latest additions to this 40 year old body. You look a lot like a worry line, and I was sure I'd have laugh lines before I'd get worry lines. I'm a little surprised at you, permanently embedding yourself into the architecture of my face. But perhaps I should be proud of you. Perhaps I should wear you with pride. You show the pain I've lived through - pain of loss, of death, of heartache. You carry my worries and proclaim to the world that I have survived. I won't botox you away, little crease. You give me depth and paint wisdom on my face.

To my mouth
Ah, dear mouth, we've had alot of fun together, you and I. We've eaten much, talked much, and laughed much. You've comforted children with soothing tones. You've spoken to crowds and offered advice to lots of people. You've smiled at your husband and offered him kisses and encouragement. You never figured out how to sing well, but I forgive you for that. You've given me contentment as I offered you delicious food. Sometimes we got a little carried away, you and I, and didn't know when enough was enough. But we're still learning, even after 40 years of trying to get it right. You are good to me, dear mouth.

To my body
We've lived through 40 years together, dear body of mine. I admit, I haven't always been fair to you. I forced you to carry too much weight, and then berated you for being heavy. I'm sorry for that. I'll try to do better in the next 40 years. But it's been good, hasn't it, dear body? We've seen alot of interesting places, carried babies - both inside and out, worked hard, played well, rested now and then, and found contentment. We've found ways to indulge our passions, satisfy our curiosity, please our friends, and live a good life. Here's to the next 40 years together. May they be as good as the last 40 have been.

40 things I want to do before I die

Sky dive
Go on a bike trip around Eastern Canada
Publish a book
Take my daughters back-packing in Europe
Eat Thai food in Thailand
Have a career as a freelance writer
Hang-glide
Own a house with a verandah (yes, D&L, I’m jealous)
Learn to paint
Go on another trip with just my husband (re-living Quebec City would be nice)
Write a regular column in a magazine or newspaper
Travel to Brazil
Design my own website
Take another pottery workshop and get proficient on the wheel
Live in another country
Get better at photography
Take a hot-air balloon ride
Teach creativity workshops again
Go on another trip with my sister
Be the keynote speaker at a conference
Watch my children grow
Live close to water
Be a travel writer
Buy more Kenyan tea in Kenya
Get in touch with some old friends
Go on a bike trip in a foreign country
Consume less
Make more friends
Attend the Folk Festival at least 20 more times
Visit the Yukon and Alaska
Watch Marcel become a teacher
Learn to do batik
See giraffes in their natural habitat again
Be an interesting senior citizen
Take this creativity workshop in Provence
Go on another family trip with my extended family
Get my nose pierced
Take up horseback riding again
See the Cirque du Soleil
See the women my daughters become at 40

Gettin' ready

Just preparing another convert for the Folk Festival!

Introducing... my lovely niece Abigail who will join us for her first pilgrimage to the greatest festival on earth, come July!

Ho hum

I’m sitting here staring at my screen. Paralyzed. Wordless. I’ve opened the document named “annual report” a thousand times, and it still has nothing but a heading. I’ve started the first paragraph a few times, but I keep deleting it. I have nothing to say.

The curse of the professional communicator/writer has returned to haunt me. Once again, like every other job I’ve been in, I get to the second or third year that I have to write the same annual document, and I get bored. Seriously bored. It’s not just me either – almost everyone I know in this line of work has an attention span of about 3 years. We can usually stretch our interest in something to the second and even third year, but beyond that, we go plum stir crazy if we have to keep writing and communicating about the same thing over and over and over again.

I can write about almost anything for awhile. In my professional (ie. “paid”) career, I’ve had to write about veterans, agriculture, health, science, and now hunger. I’ve written press releases about commemorative events, communication plans about testing SARS on “non-human primates” (in other words, “how to tell the public we’re really injecting MONKEYS with the deadly SARS virus and then KILLING them, without getting PETA down our throats”), speeches for politicians dedicating new memorials, and articles about how the price we pay for bananas impacts small scale farmers in Africa. I’ve planned photo ops for two prime ministers, spoken to media from all over the world, organized press conferences on a myriad of topics, and advised senior level bureaucrats on the right thing to say without pissing off the Canadian public.

But… the problem is, I keep getting bored. B-O-R-E-D. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve had a career that would make many people swoon with envy. I’ve travelled all across Canada (several times) and even to Africa and Rome. I’ve met all kinds of dignitaries and other famous people. I’ve seen my name in print hundreds of times. I’ve heard my words spoken from the lectern by high level politicians.

But still, after about two years, the end result is the same. B-O-R-E-D. What is WRONG with me? Sheesh!

On June 3, I’ll have been in this job for 2 years. I thought FOR SURE this job would be different. I mean, I’m doing something meaningful for a change. I don’t have to feel like a government zombie anymore. I get to challenge and inspire people to help solve world hunger. I get to travel to developing countries. I get to do more public speaking than before. I get to make a difference. I get to flex my leadership skills. I get to…. oh man, it’s still not working. I’m still bored.

When you’re a professional communicator, you always end up working alongside people with a lot of passion, but you’re almost always on the outside. I’ve worked with scientists who’ve toiled for years and years, dedicated to the same task – finding a vaccine for AIDS. I’ve worked with social workers, spending their lives trying to make sure aging veterans receive all the benefits they are entitled to. I now work with people in non-profit, who are determined that some day ALL people will have enough food to eat. These people are PASSIONATE. They live and breathe whatever it is they’re passionate about – it gets in their bones. And for awhile, their passion infects me and I get passionate too. For about a year and a half, I was excited about aging veterans. For about a year and a half, I was excited about agriculture. For about a year and a half, I was excited about ending world hunger.

Seriously - what is my PROBLEM? WHY can’t I sustain any passion? Why do I keep flitting from one thing to another like a drunken firefly?

I guess it’s the curse of the writer. We love whatever we land on, and our firefly light shines into the nooks and crannies revealing interesting things hidden below, but then our wings get itchy and we know that if we stay, our light will slowly extinguish and we will die.

This little firefly doesn't want to die. I want to keep flying. But I may need to find other things to shine my firefly light on, or I’ll get dull. And restless.

No, I’m not quitting my job. When I started here, I told myself that I could give this place AT LEAST 5 years. I still have three years to go. Three more annual reports. Three more church mailouts. Three more cycles of newsletters. Three more… cringe.

After that, hopefully Marcel will be back in the workforce and I can quit and finally be a freelance writer. Then perhaps, if I write about a different topic ever week, I’ll finally be satisfied. At least for three years anyway. :-) Sigh.

Hit the road

See that bottom number? The one that says 500.00? Yes, that's the number of kilometres I've ridden my bike in the last month. Not bad, eh?

Actually, I've done a few more than that by now, but on the way to Home Depot tonight, the whole family had to stop while I took a picture - I wanted a nice round number :-)

My goal is to have the same legs I had the year I trained for the Tinman.

A (mostly) happy mother

It was a full and family-filled weekend. Julie was in a soccer tournament, and because her team ended up in the finals (which they lost 1-0, boohoo), they had 5 games. So a fair bit of time was spent shuffling back and forth to soccer fields (oh, and one trip to the hospital when she hurt her finger pretty badly and it looked like it was broken. We didn’t stay though, since they warned us that the wait would be 5-6 hours. And REALLY, what can they do for a broken finger other than wrap it up, just like I can do at home?)

Here are a few of my mother moments, most happy and a few sad.

- After a little coaxing from their dad, the oldest 2 girls each pitched in $5 and sent me off to a movie on Saturday night. What fun! A movie by myself! I saw Kinky Boots, which is quite enjoyable, in a Full Monty sort of way.

- Since the movie just HAPPENED to be in the same mall as my favourite bookstore, I wandered around the bookstore after the movie, and ended the evening with a yummy chai latte from the coffee shop in the bookstore.

- One little melancholy moment in the bookstore… while looking for a card for my sister (it’s her first mother’s day), I spotted a card that said something about journeys through life and had a picture of an old couple in a car on a journey together. I felt a lump form in my throat because today, my mom leaves on a 2 month trip to Holland with her husband - the man who is not my father. It still hurts sometimes that Mom and Dad didn’t get to grow old together.

- After the movie and the bookstore, I took the long way home and stopped at Matthew’s grave, partly because the melancholy still clung to me. In addition to missing Dad, I had a bit of a cry about the son I don’t get to mother. I remember the Mother’s Day after we lost Matthew. We ate dinner in the backyard, and there was a butterfly that kept landing on people’s heads as we ate. We said that it was the spirit of Matthew coming to remind his mother that things would be okay.

- At Matthew’s grave, I wrote out the card to my sister, ccap. It makes me happy that we now share motherhood.

- On Sunday morning, I was instructed to stay in bed, and before long, my breakfast arrived. Fresh cinnamon buns, fruit salad, a glass of milk, and a cup of tea. Yum, yum! The girls hopped into bed with me and we all ate breakfast together.

- For Mother’s Day – three home-made cards, three flower pens, a carnation, and a centrepiece. And best of all – three smiling faces proudly offering their gifts.

- I phoned my Mom yesterday, to wish her a Happy Mother’s Day and bon voyage (they’re leaving from Alberta). It makes me sad that now there are so many things I don’t say to my Mom. I love her and I miss her. I don’t always remember to be kind to her.

- Marcel cooked his famous chicken parmigan for supper at his parents’ yesterday. Everyone else provided pasta, salads, and desserts and we had a lovely Mother’s Day feast.

Thus ends another Mother’s Day weekend. I am blessed.

This is for Michele

I can TOO keep a plant alive!

Sorry - I can't talk now - my mouth is full of cookie dough

Ummmmm... I LOVE cookie dough. When I was a kid, I used to wonder why we had to waste time baking the cookies when the dough tasted so much better than the cookies. So it's not hard to imagine that, now that I'm a mother, I don't have much trouble indulging my kids when they want to reach in and snatch a little cookie dough. In fact, we bought some white chocolate macadamia nut cookie dough from a school fundraiser, and none of it has gotten baked yet. Yes, that's the container above and it's nearly empty. After supper for the last several nights, the girls and I have gathered round with our spoons and enjoyed a little cookie dough dessert. Yummm! (Yeah, I've heard that it's not good to feed your kids raw eggs, but there are worse things they could be consuming - like, say, cocaine!)

I'm sure I'm not the only mom who indulges her kids in the things that are closest to her child-heart. In fact, my mom set a good standard in that regard. She was great at indulging us now and then in the things that other moms might have turned their noses up at. Her house might have been messy now and then, but she'd ignore it and sit down with us and read stories. Or, on a hot summer day, she'd bring a big bucket of water and some cups into the front yard and she'd join us in a water fight. She'd also let us eat a little cookie dough now and then (though I don't remember ever gathering around a bucket of it for dessert.)

There might be lots of things my kids will find to complain about me when they're grown, but at least they'll say "she let us eat cookie dough."

Sometimes

Sometimes I am a weak and foolish person.
Sometimes I hurt people because I jump to conclusions.
Sometimes I am impatient with my children.
Sometimes I approach motherhood like a duty and forget that it is a privilege.
Sometimes I don’t try hard enough to understand other people.
Sometimes I’m a know-it-all with too much pride.
Sometimes I forget to listen.
Sometimes I am lazy and slothful.
Sometimes I take people for granted and forget to appreciate them.
Sometimes I think only of myself.
Sometimes I gossip and forget that it hurts people.

“But he said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ's sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.”

Sometimes it’s hard to imagine what can be done with so much weakness.

One of my favourite books is The Gift of Being Yourself: The Sacred Guide to Self-Discovery. It was a pleasant surprise, because I expected it to be just another feel-good-self-help book. Instead, I was challenged, because one of the most important lessons that I took away from it was that, to fully be ourselves, we need to recognize our weaknesses. I’m working on that.

A bird in the hand

This little fellow came to visit us tonight. After a collision with our window, he was a little stunned and quite docile. Anyone know what kind it is? He has a lovely greenish colour to him. (We'd just biked home from a soccer game - hence the bike gloves. The girls were brave enough to hold it with a glove on their hand.) We put him on a bench while we ate supper, and now he's gone. Hopefully, he flew away to a happy long life.

Just say no

Sometimes, it feels like the only thing I say to my kids is “no”. “No you can’t buy a gameboy.” “No, we’re not going to the store so you can foolishly spend all your birthday money.” “No, we’re not renting a movie tonight.” “No I’m not buying a bag of chips.” “No, we’re not going to a restaurant for supper tonight.” “No we’re not driving to your soccer game when it’s within biking distance.” “No you can’t take your tamagatchi to church.” “No we’re not going to 7-11 for a slurpee tonight.”

It feels heavy and, at times, curmudgeonly – like I’m forever denying them of their wants and desires. I know they’re happy and well provided for, but I get tired of the endless “wants” and the endless stream of “no’s”. Some of the parenting books say that you should avoid the word “no” and try to replace it with less negative words like “maybe later” or “I’ll think about it”. But that doesn’t really satisfy – it usually means that their requests just get prolonged even longer until they get the eventual “no”. I prefer to let them know up front that there’s no chance they’ll get what they’re asking for. If I’m open to negotiation, I let them know, but usually I reinforce the fact that “no means no”.

I don’t like it, and I wish that they would ask for less things that I have to deny them of, but then I think – perhaps it is “by my no’s that they shall know me”. Perhaps the no’s are important. Perhaps this is one of the ways they’ll learn what I stand for – that I (I should say “we” since Marcel is in this too) don’t believe in endless streams of plastic junk, electronic games that destroy their social connections, too much junk food, instant gratification whenever they have a hankerin’ for something new, burning too much fossil fuel when it’s easily avoidable, and spending too much money on ourselves when there are so many people with less.

I remember an Anne Lammott story about her son, when she commented that he just seemed so “entitled” – like he assumed that he would always get what he wanted and that someone would provide for him. We’re trying hard not to raise “entitled” kids. Trust me, they don’t live in abject poverty (we DO occasionally treat them to junk food, they have lots of toys, they get slurpees on the weekend, and once every six months or so, we eat in a restaurant). But sometimes I really have to be determined to stand my ground and not give in to the requests, especially if it’s something that is easy to give them (but might not be a good idea).

Take the other night, for example – Nikki was determined to spend some of her birthday money (which she doesn’t spend foolishly, by the way – her birthday was in February, and she still has most of it) on a Webkinz. She wanted me to take her to the store THAT NIGHT. I wasn’t opposed to what she wanted to buy, but I just didn’t think she needed to expect instant gratification. So I made her wait until the weekend. It resulted in tears, and part of me thought – good grief, why wouldn’t I just give in and take her? I could even bike to the store with her, so it wouldn’t mean burning gas and it wouldn't cost ME anything. But I stood my ground, because it was the principle of it that mattered. It doesn’t kill them to wait sometimes.

I have to admit – they don’t whine and complain a lot about the things they don’t have, even though most of their school friends have A LOT more than they do. So maybe we’re doing alright. Maybe they’ll turn out to be well adjusted kids with healthy attitudes toward material things. Maybe they’ll even be inspired to live more radically than we do – choosing a deeper level of simplicity to live out their belief systems. Who knows?

For now I’ll keep saying no when I have to. But I won’t say no all the time, because sometimes it’s nice to surprise them with a “yes”.

I just gotta ask...

Are there REALLY professional competitive eaters? And they have an international federation?? Huh?

If this 4 year old child can run 65 kilometres, why does MY 4 year old child whine about walking 2 blocks to the store?

Does anyone REALLY need a vibrating razor blade with five blades? (Wince. Sorry Marcel :-)

Snakes on a blog? Huh? People obsessed with a movie (Snakes on a Plane) that hasn't even come out yet? Nothing better to do with their time?

Is disposophobia for real? Are there really people living with that much junk? Aren't you glad you're not one of them?

If I get one of these kitschy Jesus figurines, will it wash all our sports worries away?

Why do so many spammers think I need to enlarge my manhood? And what's up with the green tea lately? If I had a large "manhood" and drank more green tea, would the spammers leave me alone?

If there are professional eaters and disposophobics, isn't it pretty clear that we have an overconsumption problem in North America?

A day away

Yesterday I took myself on a date. Partly because I needed some time and space to prepare my talk for church on Sunday, and partly because I’d promised myself I would do it before my 40th birthday (see 40 days ‘til 40), I went on a personal retreat. Villa Maria is a beautiful Catholic retreat centre in lush green park-like surroundings along the Red River. For a small donation, they give you a room with a bed, a desk, a sink, and a big window with an amazing view of trees, grass, and lots of dandelions. And they feed you lunch and let you sip tea in their dining room.

I’ve done this before, and each time I do I think “man, that was so good, I really need to do this on an annual basis”, and then I get busy again, and suddenly realize it’s been a few years since the last time.

What do I do on a personal retreat? Well, for starters, I sit. And then I sit some more. I meditate. I wander around the grounds. I sit in the grass and write in my journal. I listen to frogs. I watch the grass wave in the breeze. I meander past the stations of the cross. I let the sun shine on my face. I read my Bible. I read a few chapters of a good book. I visit the chapel and sit some more. I do some centering prayer. I contemplate. I write poetry. I eat lunch alone and stare out the window at dandelions. I drink tea in the afternoon and talk to one of the friendly nuns. I think. I rest. I let time tick by. I write in my journal again. I entertain creative thoughts. I get refreshed.

Sounds delightful, doesn’t it? If you haven’t done one before, I highly recommend it. If you’ve done one before but haven’t found the time lately, sit down with your calendar, block out a day, and git yo’ ass to a retreat centre.

That perfect tranquillity of life, which is nowhere to be found but in retreat, a faithful friend and a good library. - Aphra Behn

Did anyone tell YOU?

Nobody told me about this. Nobody warned me that sometimes parenting could feel like you'd yanked your heart out of your chest, tied it to your arm, and let the world whack it with an axe. Nobody took me aside and said "hey, sometimes, you'll be sitting on the sidelines, watching them play soccer (or baseball, or even piano), and the intense feelings it will evoke in you will make you want to run away and never watch a soccer game again." (Okay, so maybe they told me and I didn't really hear them.)

It catches you by surprise, that intensity of feelings. Every failure they make dredges up your own childhood failings. Every time the rather agressive coach hollers at them because they're not playing their position or they're not aggressive enough, you feel it deep in your hidden child-heart. And when the coach sends them into goal, and you know with every fibre of your being, that they are not ready to play goal - not ready to get in front of the ball with any type of bravado on their first game - you sit on the edge of your seat praying the ball will stay on the other side of the field. Then the ball goes in - the star player on the other team kicks it past your daughter - and the failure of your child becomes your own failure. Every mistake you've ever made becomes compounded in that one moment and you feel like somehow your own mistakes are manifesting themselves onto your child.

Suddenly, you're back in the ball diamond at Arden Park, you're in the outfield, you've missed the ball, and the opposing team scores a home run. The mean girl in centre field yells at you for missing the ball, and you're sure you're the worst failure on the team. You go home crying at the end of the game, and your mom says you don't have to go back for the next game, but because you're more stubborn than that, you're determined not to let the mean girl win. You go back, and you try again, even though you know you'll never be the star player on the team and you know there will be more mean girls to point out your failures.

And then, thirty years later, when you think you've almost grown out of those moments of self-doubt, it all comes back to you like a tsunami wave. You watch them - your children - with such intense love and connection that you feel their hurt almost more deeply than if it had been you standing in that goal, watching the ball fly by. You feel it and you want to fight the tears for them. You want to take the shame you're sure they're carrying - shame that they've let their teammates down.

I dreaded the car ride home tonight - dreaded her tears and self-doubt, dreaded her proclamation that she would never play soccer again, dreaded the feable attempts I knew I'd have to make to comfort her. But then, she bounded off the field, smiled a half-smile, and said simply "I thought I'd try goal, but I don't really like it. I don't think I'll play goal next time." That was the end. No tears, no intensity. She's a trooper, my strong, beautiful, normally intense Nikki.

It's probably a good thing nobody told me about this. I might have baled out before it began, and then I would have missed the moments of redemption and triumph, when you see their incredible character and strength shine through even their moments of failure, and you know they'll be alright. Better than alright. You know they'll be incredible.

Whatever pops into my head

I had a speaking engagement in a small prairie town yesterday – similar to the small prairie town I grew up in. (I was in Boissevain, for those who know Manitoba.) I love living in the city, and I don’t ever plan to go back to the country, but sometimes I get a little nostalgic when I drive through a small town, see the old school, old church, and the little country store at the centre of town. The church I spoke in was a beautiful old stone structure with stained glass windows and a magnificent steeple. I’m sure sometimes it frustrates the locals to be in such an old building that needs so much tender loving care, but when I visit a place like that, I’m always so glad there are people who put their hearts into maintaining it.

When we arrived at our destination, we drove onto the farmyard of the people who were hosting us for supper. The woman came out of the house and told us her husband was in the shed, helping their nine year old daughter clear a corner of the shed so she could convert it into a summer playroom for herself. We wandered out to the shed and found them in there shuffling things about. The young girl had salvaged a set of old school house benches for her playroom corner. Again, I got a feeling of nostalgia. Sometimes I’m a little sad that my kids can’t grow up on a farmyard where there is so much space for exploring and building and playing. (D&L, expect our visit this summer!)

On Saturday, because we’d gotten an insurance rebate and had a little extra spending money, we took the girls out for supper. Of course, they probably would have been satisfied with Joey’s Only or the Olive Garden, but I was determined to make it a little more interesting. Since we can only afford to go out for a meal once every six months or so, I wasn’t going to waste our opportunity on some chain restaurant. We drove out of the city and ended up at Pineridge Hollow, a wonderful character place out in the woods. It was everything I’d hoped for and more – a nice evening with the family, AMAZING food, a pleasant environment, a lovely drive out to the country, and even a few deer spottings on the way. Oh, and of course, there was that inevitable restaurant moment when Maddie charms complete strangers and makes us wonder when she’ll end up going home with a new family.

Julie had her first soccer game yesterday. They say there’s something about a man in uniform that makes a woman’s heart skip a beat, but I say there’s something about a kid in uniform. My kids aren’t really big into competitive sports yet (I doubt whether they ever will be), but I do enjoy seeing them all dressed up in their soccer outfits. Look for pictures soon. I didn’t get to watch much of the game (because of the speaking engagement I mentioned earlier), but this morning I got the report that they’d won.

Nikki is getting SO tall. She stood next to me in church, and when I put my arm around her, I was caught by surprise how high my arm had to reach. She’s nearly as tall as I am. Seems like the little girl has disappeared and been replaced by this maturing young woman.

The girls and I visited the annual Children’s Hospital book sale – a booklover’s dream. It was the last day of the sale, so we got some great bargains – a whole bag of books for Nikki and Julie for only $5. (That was a HEAVY backpack to carry home from the mall!) I was hoping that would last them most of the summer, but since Julie has already read 2 of them, she thinks it won’t even last her UNTIL summer. Good thing the library is within biking distance.

We attended my nephew’s first communion service on Saturday. The service was all in French, so the content was lost on me. But despite that, if it hadn’t been for three bored children with me in the pew, I think I would have had quite a worshipful experience. Our church meets in an old supermarket (in other words, it lacks in worshipful ambiance), so sometimes I quite enjoy a visit to a grand cathedral with high ceilings, stained glass windows, stations of the cross, art work, etc. What I particularly loved were the magical moments the sunlight would stream through unseen stained glass windows high above the stage and cast an interesting pattern on the wall and the statue of Christ. Maddie was quite captivated with it too, and kept exclaiming each time the clouds would move away from the sun and the light would appear. The other moments I loved were the moments when the old woman behind us, who caught on I couldn’t speak French, would occasionally lean forward to explain something to me in the most friendly, grandmotherly voice.

Today is my Brother and Sister-in-law’s anniversary. Happy Anniversary B&S! Wow! Twenty-four years! I remember the day well – my sister and I wore yellow frilly floral floor-length dresses (a vision of loveliness!), and we were the candle-lighters. As I ascended the stage, I tripped on the hem of my skirt and had visions of burning the church down with the candle I was carrying. Fortunately, I was able to catch myself before I fell. At the time, B&S seemed so OLD. I was almost sixteen, and they were the ripe old age of 20 and 21. Now I think – what KIDS they were! I’m so glad they’ve had a successful marriage for so many years, because my sister-in-law is one of my favourite people in the whole world. (AP – thanks for forgiving me for insulting you when Technobrother brought you home to the farm :-)

It is also my Mom’s anniversary. It’s rather surreal having a brother married twenty-four years and a mother who’s been married only one. It’s been a whirlwind year for mom, and it’s nice to see her so happy. They’re off to Holland soon – she finally gets to do a little more of the traveling she always longed to do (yes, I inherited my wanderlust, as did the rest of my siblings).

That should be enough random bits to feed your curious mind (and perhaps to bore you to pieces). And, in case you need a little visual random bit, here’s a lovely, flattering picture of me speaking in church. The not-so-strategically placed cordless mic box nicely compliments my frumpy housewife look. (Oops - Blogger doesn't want to cooperate, so you'll have to wait for the picture.)

I am from

Inspired by Owlhaven (a recent addition to my blogroll), I wrote an "I am from" post. What fun! If you want to join in, she has a template here. It's a great excuse to take a little walk down memory lane. Here's mine...

I am from horses without saddles riding down road allowances on sunny afternoons, from John Deere tractors with broken seats and Heinz ketchup cans full of old tools. From bumpy rides on school buses down gravel roads, and from snow forts in winter and bale forts in summer.

I am from the little green house with no bathroom and cold running water heated on the stove for baths in the tin wash tub, from the new house with real bedrooms, from a living room with a different furniture arrangement nearly every week, and from the pig barns with squealing weanlings under heat-lamps.

I am from the chokecherry trees, lilac bushes, wheat fields and willows, the sandy soil, mud puddles, snow storms, and the smell of pigs. I am from the prairies, both harsh and friendly, from tiger lilies and crocuses, from quack grass and weeds as tall as the barn. From bitter cold winters buried under the snow, and sunny summers with breezes dancing through wheat fields and stands of poplar.

I am from springtime picnic lunches on the field next to Dad’s tractor, and Sunday morning scrambles to get to church on time, from Arthur and Margaret, Bradley, Dwight and Cynthia. From the grandpa who died on our front lawn, the grandma who liked to giggle and feed us chicken noodle soup, the grandpa with the dry sense of humour, and the grandma who was tiny and strong and who travelled to Africa when she was eighty.

I am from the family that didn’t go to community dances or bingos but never missed church on Sundays. From faspa on Sunday afternoon with aunts and uncles, friends, or the visiting minister. From a visit to the neighbours to watch the Sound of Music on their TV, and from bicycle rides with my best friend Julie.

From “don’t chew gum in church”, “clear your plate – there are children starving in Africa”, and from “bad things always happen in threes”. I’m from “you COOKED it? But that bird spoke seven languages” and “that hag Madam Yvonne with her chicken fat”.

I am from faithful, hardworking, peace-loving Mennonites who shun alcohol and love their neighbours as themselves. From a mom who loves water fights and tells the best children’s stories in church, and a dad with bushy eyebrows, a Bible tucked under his arm, and a question always on his mind.

I'm from Russia where my ancestors fled for their commitment to pacifism and their resistance to war, from a hospital in Steinbach where my mother nearly bled to death, and from Arden, a little prairie town with an elevator, a grocery store, a post office, and a swinging bridge over the river. I’m from “forma vorsct” and “vereniki”, from “plooma moos” and “rollkuchen”. From the smell of fresh bread and the sound of my Mother singing when I walked in the door after school.

I am from the day my sister nearly burnt to death and I came home from a field trip with only Mr. Bateman to give me pieces of the story, from the high school band trip to Toronto that my brother Dwight paid for so that I didn’t have to miss it, and from the tree house behind the barn that my brother Brad built with his friends.

I am from the stories my dad told with a chuckle - of working in the bush and shingling houses, the scrapbooks full of sympathy cards in my grandma’s coffee table, the dusty suitcase in the attic full of Dad’s mementos of youth, the hat box in Mom’s closet with the blue hat from her single days in the city, the Gilbert and Sullivan records, the shelves of books on the wall of mom’s sewing room, the cubby hole full of soft blankets perfect for hide and seek, the old tape recorder with the tape of Grandpa singing “A few more days shall come”, and the red mixing bowl Mom always used to mix cookies and cakes.

I am from the northern lights dancing in prairie skies, newborn calves frolicking in the field, family gathered around the table, and story time before bed. I am from home.

Few people are as stupid as I

Most people, when they know they have a dentist appointment in half an hour, stop to brush and floss their teeth.

But not me - oh no, not I. I stopped to pop a chocolate in my mouth on the way out the door.

Why? Oh, mostly absent-mindedness, I suppose. But maybe I figured if I'm gonna sit there and listen to them scold me for not flossing, I might as well have a sweet taste in my mouth to go with the bitter taste of guilt.

Some things long to be written

Call it "the muse". Call it "the writing that has a mind of its own". When you're a writer, and you know that you must write to have any kind of life or sanity at all, you satisfy the muse in any way you can. You feed it bits of yourself, and, like someone once said, occasionally you sit down at the page, open up a vein, and let the blood flow.

Sometimes there are experiences we have that we just KNOW have to be written about (or painted, or danced - whichever art the muse demands of you). Sometimes it's enough to write about it in your journal, but other times the journal is not big enough for what needs to be said.

I've been fighting with the muse lately. It's asking for more of me than I want to give. It's hard to explain, but there are pieces of me that are still well secured behind closet doors and I don't want to let them out. But there's a faint clawing at the doors of that closet lately, and I'm afraid I must open it soon.

I know this post doesn't make much sense, but I felt like writing it anyway. Sometimes it's easy to write, when you can hold the words at arm's length and pretend they are only lightly attached to who you are. Other times, it's wretchedly painful, when the words tear open your soul and reveal all the dark places you've kept hidden.

I've started writing a piece that is the hardest thing I have ever written. It's about an intensely personal and painful experience, and I have no idea if it will ever surface. For some reason, I need to write it. So far, it's called "My Trip to Crazy Town", and by that title, some of you who know me fairly intimately may know about the day the title references. It seems the muse won't let me shake the need to let this surface.

Feel free to ignore this post until I make more sense again.

Nine wheels, ten pedals, and this family is on the road!

This is our latest aquisition - Maddie's tag-along-bike. She is SO proud! When we got to church on Sunday morning, she had to show it off to anyone who would stop to look.

There's an incredible scene in American Beauty, when Ricky Fitts is showing the girl (can't remember her name) the video of a plastic bag floating in the breeze. He says, as his eyes fill with tears, "Sometimes there's so much beauty in the world I feel like I can't take it, like my heart's going to cave in." That's how I felt this weekend on the numerous occasions when we went out for family bike rides. Pedalling my bike behind my husband and three daughters on a perfect spring day felt almost overwhelmingly beautiful - so beautiful I felt my heart would cave in.

It's hard to describe when you have a moment in time that feels as close to perfection as you can imagine. The sun shining, the warm Spring air, the man that you love ahead of you, Maddie saying hello to people on the sidewalk as she bounces along behind her dad, Nikki racing to try to beat her dad, Julie's earnest look on her face as she pours her heart into pedaling... it's almost more than the heart can take. We biked a couple of times to St. Vital park, watched the sun begin to set on the overflowing river, tossed breadcrumbs to the ducks on the duck pond, climbed the rocks - basically had an amazing time.

My life is full, and I am happy. May I live to see many more bike rides with my family.

Caught the bug

I know I’m a little slow on the up-take, but Gina infected me with the Indie Virus, and unless I pass it on, I’ll be stuck with this pesky bug forever.

You see, Pearsonified has started a small, casual social experiment, it's called "The Indie Virus." Here's how Pearsonified describes this experiment: The experiment, henceforth referred to as "The Indie Virus," has two goals:
1) To bring exposure to lesser known blogs (especially those outside of Technorati's top 100);
2) To explore the metrics behind a viral linking campaign launched by the 'little guys' (less popular blogs).

Part of the reason it took me this long was because I couldn’t decided whether to give the nod to the people who inhabit BOTH my blog world and my non-blog world (like ccap, ap, linda, or michele) or those whom I’ve met through blogs. Because I didn’t want to appear too biased (sorry family and friends), I chose the latter. So here are my pics…

1. Anvilcloud over at Raindrops was one of my first blog friends, so I remain loyal to him. But it also helps that he’s entertaining, interesting, funny AND a good photographer. I’m also rather fond of his wife Cuppa, who exudes warmth and comfort. (I only wish she'd post more often :-)

2. Stephanie at Creature Bug not only has one of the most beautiful sites I visit on a regular basis (she’s got a great masthead that she changes fairly regularly), she’s also one of those people that I’m POSITIVE I would click with if I met her in person. She has similar interests, similar values, and she’s an entertaining and thoughtful writer.

3. Dale at Musings from Mimico is one of the most genuine people I’ve met in blogland. He’s incredibly honest – letting you into all the parts of his world, not just the pretty bits. I love his vulnerability, his ability to enjoy simple pleasures, and his kindness. Dale is also one of the most faithful and encouraging commenters, and I love him for that.

If Gina hadn’t been the one who’d passed this to me, than she’d be on my list too, ‘cause she’s definitely one of my favourites too.

Now run along, pay them a visit, and tell them Heather sent you :-)

I found it! I found it!

Remember my rant about women's magazines? Well, it turns out 2 women in Saskatchewan read my mind, because they've started a magazine that sounds EXACTLY like the one I said I'd start. Even the title sounds refreshingly original... Cahoots.

This is what they say in their submission guidelines...

Please DO NOT send us:
Empty, regurgitated pieces about losing weight, pleasing men in bed, finding a man, makeovers, 7 steps to happiness, fashion that is priced way over anything an average woman’s income will allow…we know you know what we mean.

Sounds just about perfect, doesn't it? I read the first issue cover to cover, and they live up to their claims, and my expectations - including a beautiful piece of artwork on the front cover. :-) Colour me impressed! Now if only I could find it in airport kiosks!

My husband is SO smart

Twenty-six years ago, Marcel dropped out of school without a high school education. He thought he’d drive truck for the rest of his life.

Eleven years ago, when he realized he wanted more out of life than driving a truck forever, he went for some upgrading and got his GED (grade 12 equivalency). Around the same time, he got his first office job.

Three and a half years ago, he quit his job. Much to the surprise of everyone around him – especially his trucking buddies – he enrolled in university. It took incredible courage to do so.

Yesterday, he finished his last exam, completing enough credit hours to earn him a Bachelor of Arts degree in History and Political Science.

In a couple of months, he’ll wear a cap and gown – for the first time in his life. At the age of 41. Next year, if he gets in, he’ll start his second degree so that he can teach High School. Imagine the irony – a high school dropout becomes a high school teacher.

I couldn’t be more proud of him than I am now. Not only did he complete his first degree, he did it with pretty impressive marks too. He is so much smarter than he ever gives himself credit for. And he'll be a GREAT teacher.

Favourite Easter moments

Maddie, sitting on my lap during Good Friday Ekklesia service. Corrie says “all those who are Christians can participate in communion.” Maddie whips her head around, beams at me, and says with delight (loud enough so that Jayne sitting behind me could hear it and share the beauty of the moment), “I’M A CHRISTIAN!” I’m not sure how much she understands, but she believes, and yes, we let her take communion. I wish we all could proclaim it with such joy.

Julie, going through the stations of the cross with me, reaching down to the white paper in front of us and, with black paint on her gloved hand, writes “love”. Yes, this girl is all about love, and I think she understands that part of the Easter story. Something about seeing her write it made this mother heart swell with pride. I had to brush a tear away from my eye.

Don, singing “this is not the same, it’s another thing all together - this is love” about as well as Steve Bell does. So glad I got to hear it twice – both times it sent shivers up and down my spine. The God of beauty gave Don a voice and taught him how to use it.

Corrie, tearing off my blackened glove and saying “your sins are forgiven”. I didn’t anticipate the feeling of refreshment on my hand after the rubber glove was removed. I didn’t expect to be moved by how clean and able to breathe my hand felt. It was like the water in the centre of the labyrinth, after being covered in dust.

Nikki, giving one of her prized Tamagatchis to her sister. You have to know Nikki to know how much of a big deal it is for this girl to give away something she treasures – especially to Julie. But this weekend – maybe it was the spirit of the season, or maybe she just figured out it was more fun to play together than alone – she gave it away entirely on her own accord. There’s a little bit of Easter in that moment of graciousness.

Children – mine and others – running around hunting for colourful Easter eggs. Perhaps an egg hunt has nothing to do with the “real” Easter, but there is something about watching children run delighted through grass hunting for treasure that speaks of beauty, renewal, and hope. THAT has everything to do with Easter.

Sunshine. There was so much of it this weekend. Hours and hours of sunshine. And warmth. I can’t imagine a better way to celebrate the resurrection.

So many good moments this Easter weekend. I wish I could put them in a jar like little fireflies so they’d light up the night. But I suppose, just like fireflies, they’re better left floating out there in the universe to be enjoyed by all.

Easter is redemption and hope and resurrection and re-birth. Easter is love. I don’t always understand why Jesus had to die, but sometimes I’m content to live with my questions and just let the little moments of clarity be enough.

Listen

Driving home from the bookstore on Thursday night, I took the long way home because I liked what I heard on the radio. CBC radio was playing a re-run of Tapestry, and I was so moved by what I heard, I had to pull over and jot some notes in my notebook. It didn't occur to me until later how delightfully appropriate it was that I'd stopped the car next to a shadowy graveyard and a lit cathedral.

The program was an interview with Alan Jones. His book, Reimagining Christianity: Reconnect Your Spirit Without Disconnecting your Mind is now on my wish list. You can hear the interview here.

Here are a few of the things I jotted down...
- the opposite of faith is not doubt, but certainty
- religion doesn't answer the questions, it deepens them
- religion is meant to be uncomfortable - it will piss you off if it means anything
- "mine must have been the slowest conversion in history - I have an enormous capacity for missing the point"
- Christianity is a "way" not a "state"
- you can't opt out of belonging - if you opt out, then you belong to those others who have opted out
- the universe is made up of stories, not atoms
- imagine the beautiful irony of Jesus, who is the "word of God" but was born as a baby, unable to speak - word and silence must be part of each other

It also helps that his voice is like ear-candy. I think I could listen to it all day.

Mindful

sun settles
pink joins hands
with periwinkle blue
cotton candy sky
clouds lend canvas
to paintbrush of incandescent light
mystery unfolds soft
music in the heavens

god of beauty
do you whisper to the angels
"gather round look
at this our masterpiece"
do you brush
sadness from your eyes
when we, distracted,
close doors and
forget to bear witness

Start with an apology

Our mayor, Sam Katz, is in hot water for making idiotic, sexist statements at a ceremony meant to honour our city’s Olympic champions, who all happen to be female. He made a variety of comments, calling them “beautiful girls” and “special ladies”, but the one that tops them all off is when, standing on the stage with them, he said he felt like Hugh Hefner. Now, I don’t think I have to explain why that is completely inappropriate, patronizing, and sexist.

What really bugs me though, is the fact that Katz won’t apologize for his statements. He says that people should just “get over it”. Clearly, he hasn't tried to understand how patronizing his comments sounded. To compare gifted athletes to playboy bunnies is just… well, I hardly have the words to say how idiotic it is.

Getting back to my point though, sometimes an apology can be a powerful thing. If Katz owned up to his mistake, accepted the criticism, and made a public apology to the athletes and to all women in this city (especially those young girls in the crowd who showed up to see their athletic heroes, and had to be subjected to one more example of sexism), I suspect that most women would be much quicker to “get over it”. As it is now, there are people calling for his resignation. I guess next time you should think twice about revealing your fantasy of lounging in a bathrobe next to a pool full of buxom babes, Mr. Katz.

I read a couple of things lately that reminded me of the power of an apology. First of all, I read Don Miller’s book Blue Like Jazz. At one point, he was one of only a handful of Christians on a very secular campus. There was a big annual party planned for the campus, and that party was known for its extreme hedonism and “anything goes” atmosphere. The group of Christian students were contemplating what they should do during the party, and Don, rather jokingly, said they should put up a confessional in the middle of the campus. Much to Don’s horror, one of his friends took him seriously, and went with the idea. But he had a different twist on it – instead of taking confession from party goers, when people entered the booth the CHRISTIANS would be the ones to make confession. So they did it. When people showed up, they apologized for many of the past and current sins of Christianity – judgementalism, racism, sexism, causing wars, etc. – and they apologized for their own sins too. Wow. Powerful stuff.

Another thing I read was a piece about Tom Fox, the member of the Christian Peacemaker Teams who was executed in Iraq. Once, at a meeting of the Langley Hill Friends, Tom Fox was asked, “What do you think the U.S. should do? (about Iraq)” He was quiet for a moment and then said, “I think we should apologize.” Again – a powerful thought – the superpowers of the world apologizing to the people they’d bullied. Can you imagine George Bush walking into the home of an Iraqi peasant family who’d lost their children and their livelihood to the American invasion and said, simply, “I’m sorry”?

In a twelve step program, one of the steps is to make an account of the wrongs you’ve done, and another one is to make amends where appropriate. Without following these steps, they believe that you can’t fully overcome your compulsive, damaging behaviour. An apology is not only powerful for the person receiving it, but for the person humble enough to give it.

Apologizing can be the hardest thing in the world to do, but it can also be the most beautiful. I’m not very good at it, I confess. I spend a lot of time trying to justify my own actions rather than own up to them and apologize for them. I wish I were better, but pride gets in the way. Plus I think empty apologies can be more damaging than none, so I’m reluctant to do something unless I really mean it.

Sometimes, I’ve gotten it right, though, and most of the time, the rewards outweigh the pain. More than once, I’ve apologized to friends or family, and found that by doing so, it deepened my relationship with them, and brought us to a new place of honesty. Once I had to learn a hard lesson in apology. I was speaking in church about relationships, and I knew that I couldn’t stand up in front of people and be honest if I didn’t resolve one of the relationships in my life that had gone wrong. I made a very difficult decision to phone a friend I hadn’t spoken to in ten years and I apologized for my part in the dismantling of our relationship. I hated it, but I’m glad I did it. She said she was blown away by my call. She responded with her own apology.

I’m trying to get better at it especially in my marriage and my home. It’s especially hard to apologize to my children, but it’s probably the best example I can give them.

If only Sam Katz would recognize the power of a genuine apology, I think he’d be a better mayor. I’m afraid it’s too late though. Anything he does now will only be seen as a political back-step.

The many signs of Spring

Irises poking through the earth in my little garden
Earthworms on the sidewalk after the rain
Maddie in her alligator boots wading through puddles
Little frog jumping across my path
Bike tires on pavement
Unzipped jackets
Soccer practice
Geese flying overhead
Pork chops on the barbecue
Daughters in capri pants
Hotdog vendors on the street corner
Slurpees
Car windows rolled down
Waking to the sound of thunder
Lawnchairs on the front lawn
Rollerskates
Robins under the evergreen tree
Open-toed shoes
Chorus of frogs at dusk

Aaahhh! Breathe deeply. It’s Spring!

Sometimes I dream of living in a place with warm weather 12 months of the year, but then I live through another spring, and I remember why I love to be here.

Happy Birthday, bbb!

Today my Big Brother turns 45. I had no idea 45 could be so young until I got this close myself! (Yes, that's him and me in the pic. Sorry, I thought I'd done a better job of scanning it.)

He’s a cool guy, my Big Brother. Here are a few of the things I like about him:
- He is fearless. I think he’d try almost anything if he had the chance (except for a few kinds of exotic foods, perhaps).
- He is generous. He’s probably given away more money (and other stuff) than I’ve made in my life. I remember calling him in a panic when my sister and I were wandering around Europe and couldn’t access our funds and he said “why would you feel badly about asking ME for money?”
- He’s a great dad. To watch him with his kids is to see a thing of beauty.
- He is adventurous. I both envy and admire his ability to leave all earthly possessions behind and backpack around the world for a year.
- He’s smart. In our family, he’s the “go to” guy for all kinds of questions like how to fix a computer, what’s the best stereo equipment to buy – you name it.
- He’s fun. He loves to drive fast, go on adventures, seek out new places, watch movies, climb to ridiculous heights to get the best picture, throw caution to the wind – basically, he’s a bit of an experience junkie, and he likes to take along anyone who’s willing to join him.
- He’s wise. He doesn’t accept things at face value, and he dares to ask the deep questions. He’s a little like our dad in that way.

I could think of other things, but I don’t want to swell his head TOO much. :-)

You’re my hero, Big Brother. Happy Birthday!

40 days 'til 40

Seriously, do I look old enough to be turning 40?

In 40 days, I will turn 40. I thought it would freak me out. I thought it would depress me. I thought I’d feel a little panicky about being old and settled like I did when I turned 30 and had just bought our first house, given birth to our first child, and bought our first minivan. But in an odd sort of way, I welcome it. Forty sounds like a good age to be. People take you seriously when you’re forty. You’re young enough to still think youthfully, but old enough to have gained some wisdom along the way.

I feel content. I’m at a good place to be approaching a milestone like this. I’ve gotten good at a few things, had a few accomplishments along the way, learned from lots of mistakes, continued to find opportunities to be foolish and carefree, traveled to some interesting places, had some great relationships, found my soulmate and worked hard at making our marriage work, watched my children grow into interesting little people, had some interesting and challenging jobs, followed my passions, and found ways to touch people and let them touch me along the way. Don’t get me wrong - there have been lots of road bumps, some tragedies and really dark places, fear, loneliness, and more than one utter failure, but all of that has only helped the molding and shaping of me into a person I quite like to be.

One of the greatest things about getting older is that you get more comfortable in your skin - you’re more willing to learn from other people and less concerned about proving that you have stuff figured out, you know yourself better, you’ve figured out some of the things that make you happy, and you get better at discerning which risks are worth taking.

Not long ago, there was an article in the paper written by a woman who was turning thirty with much dread and resistance. She lamented the lines on her face, the grey hairs popping up, and all the other physical signs that she was not as young as she once was. Short of plastic surgery, she was doing almost everything she could to stop the aging process. The woman who wrote the story is a friend and former employee of mine. I hired her for her first “real” job, and I mentored her and had an influence in her life. I like her – quite a bit – but the article saddened me. I was sad that she hadn’t learned to embrace the aging process. I was sad that she fought what nature had in mind for her. After I saw the article, I looked in the mirror at the deepening lines in my face and decided that I would embrace them, whatever the cost. The lines in my face tell a story – they map my history. They make my face more gentle and maybe a little more wise. I don’t want a twenty-year-old face when I have a forty-year-old soul.

As I look toward the next decade of my life, I feel incredibly hopeful about the future. The little bits of wisdom I’ve picked up along the journey have helped me see the future through clearer, more interesting lenses. At thirty, the future looked a little scary and heavy. With a new mortgage, a new baby, and a fairly new marriage, I felt like I was picking up the world and placing it firmly on my shoulders. I felt so unprepared and inexperienced. I didn’t feel quite ready for the next ten years. Now, ten years later, with our second mortgage and our third child, I feel so much more experienced and more prepared for the next decade. Life gets easier with experience.

At forty, I have so much to look forward to. I look forward to having more time on my hands as my children get older and need me less. I look forward to needing less money to survive (or at least not being the sole bread-winner in the house) and being able to do more things because I’m passionate about them and fewer things because I get a pay cheque for doing them. I look forward to learning more things from interesting and creative people. I look forward to teaching more people some of the interesting things I’ve learned in my 40 years. I look forward to trying new things – like painting – I’ve always wanted to learn to paint. I look forward to watching my children figure out what their gifts are, and I look forward to letting them teach me things. I look forward to reading more, playing more, creating more, learning more, seeing more, doing more, teaching more, eating more, loving more, and understanding more.

To help me bring on this hopeful future, I’ve decided that, for the next forty days, I will go on a bit of a personal pilgrimage. You could call it a belated lent season, I suppose. To be more prepared for all the “mores” I have ahead of me, I want to spend a little time making sure I’m healthy enough, both physically and spiritually, to get the most out of them. Here’s what I plan to do:

1. Spend at least 15 minutes a day doing something for my physical health. Mostly, it will probably be walking or biking (this morning was a good start!), but I think I might try a few new things. I’m thinking of signing up for yoga. Sometimes I’ll do things with the kids – like swimming on a Saturday afternoon. In the meantime, I’ll try to eat less compulsively and more mindfully (I’m still waiting for the book I ordered – Eating Mindfully).

2. Spend at least 15 minutes a day doing something for my spiritual health. I want to read the Bible more, pick up some good books that inspire me, pray, meditate, listen to spiritual teachings, etc. If possible, I’d like to walk the labyrinth again. I’ve been doing a little reading on mindfulness and meditation, and I want to make it more a part of my life.

3. Spend at least 15 minutes a day refreshing my creative spirit. I’m dusting off my copy of The Artist’s Way, and picking up the follow-up piece, Walking in this World that I bought a few years ago but never got around to reading. I’ll try to do some morning pages, maybe go on some “artist’s dates”, listen to good music, write some poetry, and try my hand at some new forms of creativity (like maybe some collages – something my daughters will probably enjoy participating in too).

4. Take a day (or at least a portion of a day) for a personal retreat. I’ve done this before and it’s a wonderful way to regroup and refresh. I may head out to St. Benedict’s again, or find another worshipful/peaceful place to spend a day.

I’ll be gentle on myself along the way. I won’t be too strict – sometimes the above activities will be combined (like a meditative walk through an art gallery, perhaps), and mostly I’ll forgive myself if I slip up. I’ll be gentle on my family too – I’ll look for opportunities to include them on the pilgrimage. And at the end of the 40 days, I may or may not continue – for now I only commit to the 40 days.

When I turn forty, forty days from now, I plan to indulge myself in something I’ve wanted to do for a long time. I want to jump out of a plane – with a parachute attached, that is. I figure that will be a fitting way to round out my 40 day pilgrimage. Hopefully, it will be an energized, invigorated me jumping out of that plane and drifting down to earth. Whatever the case, at least I’ll have one more thing to add to the “great moments in my life” list when I turn 50.

(By the way, if anyone wants to join me for the jump, either to watch or participate, let me know!)

Slow and steady wins the race

I made it to work this morning. On my bike. And I'm still alive! My legs feel like they've been replaced by tubes of jell-o, and I kept company with Mr. Turtle along the way (at least I didn't stop to flirt with pretty rabbits, like Mr. Hare), but I made it. Another summer of biking has begun. Yay!

Oh - and I saw a FROG! It really IS Spring!

Dandelions and sheep

It’s not a picture that would stop you in your tracks if it were hanging in a gallery. In fact, you’d pass by and probably wonder if you could get your money back for this exhibit. No, it’s not exhibit-worthy or even frame-worthy. If you had taken it, in fact, it might be one of the pictures you’d cull rather than place in your photo album.

It’s a completely ordinary picture, but it’s hanging on my office wall in a place of honour – right next to my computer where I can see it while I work. It’s a picture of a patch of sunny yellow dandelions, growing near a wall. In the bottom corner of the picture is a shadow – clearly the shadow of the person who leaned over to take the picture.

Why is this picture on my wall? Let me explain.

Two and a half years ago, my Dad was killed in a farm accident. His death tore a huge hole in my life, and left me reeling from the pain. It’s true that “you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone.” My Dad had always been a constant in my life – a source of wisdom, humour, stability, and inspiration - but I didn’t fully recognize any of this until death snatched him away.

When we were cleaning out the farm house, in preparation for the sale of the farm and mom’s move to the city, we found something that Dad had left behind – a camera. It was an inexpensive disposable camera and the film inside was full of the last pictures Dad had taken before he died. At the time, it seemed almost too much to cope with, so we set it aside and nearly forgot about it. My sister held onto it, always with the intention that she would eventually develop the pictures and share them with the rest of the family. I don’t believe my brothers even knew it existed.

A few months ago, more than 2 years after Dad died, I got an e-mail from my sister. She’d developed the pictures and scanned them. They were all attached to the e-mail. I sat there staring at my computer screen, knowing that I was about to open Dad’s last gift to us, his family. At the same time, I was a little afraid to raise my expectations – the pictures might prove disappointing.

I didn’t open them right away. I had to give myself time to process and prepare. I waited until my children were in bed and I was alone at the computer. I knew the emotions would overwhelm me.

When the first image opened, I breathed in sharply. The now familiar pain of memory poured over on me. It was almost more than I could bear – seeing Dad’s world through his own eyes. The tears began to flow as I clicked slowly from picture to picture.

If ever there was a sacred moment, this was it. It was almost mystical how much those pictures revealed the man we’d lost. Every picture told a little story about his life – what was important to him, where he found beauty, what inspired him, and where he spent many hours of his days.

All of the pictures were taken on the farm, a place he loved to be like no other place on earth. Every picture tells of his love of creation and his respect for the earth. The range of pictures spans a whole year – showing a view from every season. There are growing gardens, flowering trees, sheep, geese flying over the water – these are all things that my dad loved with almost a child-like enthusiasm. I remember times when he’d drag me across the yard, just to see a new bud poking through the earth or a new calf taking its first step. I remember the calendar entries in the Spring – “first sign of geese”, “frogs croaking.” This was a man who knew how to enjoy the beauty and surprises in creation.

Some of the pictures are of people he loved. One picture shows Mom with her bicycle, one of her favourite possessions. Another one shows two of my daughters in the garden. In one winter picture, I’m standing beneath a tree, peering into the branches at someone I believe is my nephew.

A few of the pictures must have been taken by mom, because Dad is in them. My second favourite picture (also hanging on my wall) portrays him carrying a yellow bucket, amidst a herd of sheep. Dad loved sheep. He owned them just because they fascinated him so much. He particularly liked the imagery in the Bible where followers of Jesus are compared to sheep with a shepherd. In Dad’s sheep pasture, near the highway, was a sign that read “My sheep hear my voice and they follow me.”

That brings us back to the dandelion picture. What makes this one special? Well, just like sheep, Dad had a special love affair with dandelions. He thought they were among the most underappreciated gifts of God’s creation. He believed that not enough people stopped to look at dandelions – to really appreciate them.

Now you can understand why a picture that shows a shadow of Dad leaning over to take a picture of dandelions is one of the greatest gifts I’ve ever received in my life. And the gift goes far beyond the picture. The real gift is having had the privilege to be raised by a man who taught me how to marvel at little things like dandelions, to see God’s hand in everything, and to let even those things that others call weeds teach me something valuable.

Here, for your reverent viewing pleasure, are my favourite pictures. The next time you see a dandelion, think of my Dad, and breathe a little prayer of thanks. (Cuppa, I still remember the tribute you did last year - I was so touched!)

Fun things happening

I’ve got a bit of a buzz going today, ‘cause there have been lots of fun surprises lately. Sometimes in life it just feels like a door opens up and the world starts throwing little gifts through it. I’ve been on the receiving end of that door lately. All of them are fun and most of them are exciting because they may open up even more doors. Here are a few of them:

1. I got my advance copies of Geez Magazine today – dropped off by the editor himself. On page 87 of this fun and irreverent magazine (whose subtitle is “holy mischief in an age of fast faith”) is an article by yours truly! Here I am doing that dance again!

2. Yesterday I had a very cool lunch with Steve Bell, who’s an awesome singer-songwriter (who also happens to be a Juno winner – that’s the Canadian equivalent of the Grammies). It looks like Steve and I will probably work on a music video project together. What fun! Steve is a really amazing person to talk to – full of passion and ideas and lots of deep thoughts.

3.Steve put me in touch with another guy, an editor of another magazine who’s working on building a community/network of people involved in arts/faith/creativity – something I’ve been longing to be involved in for awhile. After lunch, I e-mailed him, and we’re getting together for lunch next week! More fun!

4. When I got back from lunch with Steve, I got an e-mail from my old friend Ian Ross (also known as Joe from Winnipeg). Ian and I used to write and produce plays together back in the day. Since then, he’s gone and gotten himself famous (won the Governor General’s award for playwriting – the highest award you can get in this country) and we’ve lost touch. I ran into him last year, and now we’re finally getting back in touch. I think we’ll do lunch soon.

5. Earlier this week, I also had lunch with a very cool writer, and one of my best friends – Michele. Michele is busy writing her second text book. I only wish text books had been written by cool people like Michele back when I was a student.

So you see I’m on a bit of an artsy/creative buzz after all these serendipitous pieces started falling into my lap. (It also sounds like I’m doing a little name-dropping, but I really DO know all these cool people!) I love it when I get to hang out with people who inspire me and make me want to be more creative. All of the above moments had that affect on me.

Hope

Forty great moments in my life

1. para-sailing in Mexico
2. seeing my babies for the first time (I guess that’s technically 3 great moments, but who’s counting?)
3. learning to do a 360 on a kneeboard (pulled behind a boat)
4. hiking to the top of Sulfur Mountain
5. taking the incline railway up to the misty top of the mountain in Interlachen, Switzerland and hiking back down
6. sleeping in a tent on a farm in Kenya
7. hiking to the ocean in Washington State and watching my dad carve his name on the boardwalk (and carry home some rope washed up on the shore)
8. sneaking into Green Gables on Prince Edward Island
9. taking a boat out onto a very deep lake in Montana on our honeymoon
10. boarding my first flight on a family trip to Edmonton
11. saying “I do”
12. riding the tram-car in San Fransisco and shouting “Oh no, not the bunny cuffs!” to the street performer (along with other members of my somewhat crazy family)
13. watching my brother Dwight eat a six-inch high canned-meat sandwich somewhere in a park in B.C.
14. riding the ferry from England to Belgium and meeting up with my sister, ccap, at the ferry station
15. sitting on the beach at White Lake watching my children play
16. eating at the Russian Tea Room in New York City
17. sitting on the side of Norquay Mountain watching the meteorite shower with my husband
18. watching my brothers and husband jump off the waterfall at Rainbow Falls
19. eating crepes in Quebec City (I won’t mention the OTHER things we did in Quebec City, but suffice it to say, it was a very romantic weekend!)
20. seeing elephants and zebras and giraffes and lions in the Serengetti
21. backpacking in Banff with my sister-in-law
22. watching fireworks at Ile des Chenes
23. eating watermelon with extended family near the playhouse at Mom and Dad’s farm
24. sleeping on the deck of a ship on the Mediterranean
25. riding horses with my brother and closest childhood friend, Julie
26. laughing about magic soap on a snowy trip to Denver
27. sitting around the campfire at Carberry Bible Camp
28. a cooking class and a bottle of wine with Linda, Michele, and ccap
29. seeing my name in print the first time I got published (and every time since)
30. our first weekend in the camper, at Hecla Island, when we told family members we were expecting Maddie
31. sitting on a quiet beach at Korfu, Greece after everyone else had gone home for the day
32. eating butter chicken and listening to good music at the Folk Festival (again, multiple moments, but I can’t pick one particular favourite)
33. sleeping on the rocks on an island in Lake of the Woods (until it started to rain)
34. riding a glass elevator up the CN Tower while on a high school band trip
35. riding down into the Royal Gorge in the snow
36. hearing the word “mommy” for the first time
37. stepping across the finish-line of a 20 mile walk-a-thon when I was six years old
38. watching my dad win the stooking contest at Austin Thresherman’s Reunion
39. going to the Sarah McLachlan concert with ccap
40. sleeping next to an open window in a hostel in Venice, with the sounds of party boats floating down the canal

Ah, it’s been a good life so far!

Cradle

Today I returned the cradle. Ed's cradle. The one he lent me when Nikki was about to be born. "I want it back," he said, "when I have grandchildren."

Today I returned it to his widow. There is no Ed there now. There are no grandchildren to rock in that cradle. There may be grandchildren some day, but Ed won't be there to hold them.

The house was quiet. Ed's house, without Ed. His wife looked empty. Holding up, as best she can, but empty. They were supposed to have a long life together. They were supposed to spoil their grandchildren together.

I feel this sadness I can hardly name. For Diana, for their sons, for the grandchildren that will never know Ed.

He used to call me Heather-bell. He would have been a good grandpa.

There are so many things in life that don't make sense.