Seasons change

“To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under the sun.” Ecclesiastes 3

I’m reading a book called “Leaving Church”. It’s a personal memoir about Barbara Brown Taylor’s experience of giving up the priesthood.

Though I didn’t realize the serendipity at the time, I bought the book with a gift certificate I’d gotten when I ended my tenure as an elder at our church. (No – in case any GNFers are getting worried – I’m not “leaving church”, I’m just stepping away from leadership.)

For everything there is a season. It’s time for me to step away and enter other seasons. Not only am I not an elder anymore (the highly skilled Krista is picking up the mantle), I’ve also given up doing announcements and welcomes. Basically, I’m stepping out of any leadership or public persona role and slipping into an “anonymous churchgoer” role. And that’s the way I want it for now.

It feels like a time for other things. I need a season for focusing on my writing a little more. Maybe a season for taking some art courses – pottery, painting, photography – I’m not sure what yet. Mostly, I’m hoping it will be a season for creativity. And maybe a little rest.

I’m not sure what other changes the coming year will bring. When I started this job, I’d told myself I would give it at least 5 years. After that, Marcel would be finished university and I might be able to consider other options. This is my fifth year. Marcel doesn’t have a full-time job yet, but he makes a pretty decent living as a substitute teacher.

I still love my job, and honestly? I could see myself quite happily spending another 5 years here if it came to that. I’m in no rush to leave. But I’m also ready to open myself up to new possibilities. I’ve done a lot of really amazing things in the 4+ years I’ve been here, and I’m pretty confident I’ve left a positive mark on the organization, so I could walk away if it felt right to do so.

At this point, though, I’m in no rush to move into anything new. I’m going to enjoy the summer, sign up for a class or two in the fall, and maybe find a little more time and space for some writing. And in the meantime, I’m going to say “no” to almost anything anyone asks me to do for church.

She likes me, she really likes me

When I get home from work these days, Maddie likes to talk. And talk. Incessantly. We go for a bike ride – she talks. I do laundry – she talks. I wash the supper dishes – she talks. I try to get her to go to bed – she talks.

Yesterday she was telling me about a show she’d watched with her sisters. I think it’s called Wife Swap? (Where 2 women switch homes for a week.) Apparently one of the families lived a rather chaotic and crazy lifestyle and liked pretending they were pirates. The other family was much more structured and organized and the wife and daughter were more into girlie things.

I asked her “so… if I were to switch with another mom for a week, what kind of woman would you want it to be?”

“Well,” she said, and thought about it for awhile. “Someone kinda organized, but still a lot of fun.” And then she smiled. “Just like you.”

Good answer.

Another year, another Folk Fest

Another great weekend is behind us. We danced, we ate whales' tails, we listened to good music, we tried to hide from the rain, we dreamed about buying funky (but too expensive) clothes from the handmade village, we wandered, we mused, we got muddy, we talked to friends, we people-watched, we pointed out all the old regulars, we reminisced about the over 20 years of history we'd seen in this place, we shared moments with our offspring who've attended every year of their lives... aaahhhh, we had fun. It's always such a let-down to see it end.

Just a few memories to hang onto as we go through withdrawal... (As you can see, we enjoyed a wide variety of weather.)

Music to a mother's ears

Our kids have had to stay at home alone for much of this week, because Marcel is taking some French upgrading and I've been at work. I wasn’t sure how that was going to go. They’ve been alone at home before, but never for a few days in a row like this.

Well, it turns out I needn’t have worried.

Yesterday I phoned home to find out how Maddie was (she’d been sick during the night), and Julie said, rather matter-of-factly “yeah, she puked this morning. But it’s no big deal. I cleaned it up.” When I asked if I should come home, she said “Nah, we’ve got things under control.”

In the afternoon, I phoned home again, and Nikki said “well, we’ve already cleaned the bathroom and the living room and now we’re working on the basement. We sent Maddie upstairs for a nap because she wasn’t helping.”

Today I phoned home and Julie said “I thought we’d like some treats for the Folk Festival this weekend, so I’ve baked some chocolate chip cookies and now I’m going to make some brownies. For the chocolate chip cookies, I split the recipe in half because I wanted to add white chocolate to some.”

How’dya like that? Despite my many parenting doubts and the occasional screw-ups, they’re turning out alright!

Cringe

I’ve put it off as long as possible, but now I must face the inevitable. I grit my teeth, brace myself, and plunge in. I know I will face rocky seas, disgruntled people, awkward conversations, and lots of uncomfortable moments. I know I will have to say some fairly harsh things, and probably hear a few harsh responses. I will try to be gentle, but I have to balance that out with cold, hard honesty.

It’s performance appraisal time.

This is the moment of every year that I would prefer not to be a manager.

Random

1. Maddie learned to ride a two-wheeler bike this week. Based on the less-than-pleasant experiences of teaching her sisters (cringe), I was dreading having to teach her, but she was much more relaxed about it (perhaps it’s a youngest child thing?) and it turned out to be fun and surprisingly easy.

2. I like to think of myself as a fairly tolerant person. I don’t yell at bad drivers (maybe they’re distracted because they just found out a family member died) and I try to give rude salespeople the benefit of the doubt (maybe their mother was never kind to them and they didn’t have a good role model). BUT… there are a few things I just can’t tolerate. Littering is one of them. On Tuesday (Canada Day), I saw three people casually toss garbage on the ground and walk away. COME ON PEOPLE! Let’s not be stupid!

3. Only one week until Folk Festival!

4. Maddie dropped in at the office this morning to donate the bag full of the change she’s been saving for months. She wanted to give it to the poorest country in the world – “because they don’t have enough food and they often have to drink dirty water”. I guess she WAS listening when I came home with stories of the people I’ve met in my travels! Ah, it swells a mother’s heart.

5. A few weeks ago, I went to a blogging workshop at a Christian writers’ conference (without having researched the presenter first). The blogger leading the workshop was shockingly right-wing, and what I’ve seen of her blog since is mostly anti-Muslim (with a little anti-gay thrown in for good measure) rhetoric - some of it frighteningly hateful. She has a large readership and it fills me with uneasiness that there are so many people who sing her praises. It also fills me with uneasiness that she was applauded at a “Christian” writers’ conference. (I could say more about that conference – but I'll save that for another time.)

6. I’ve actually had time to sew this week. What fun! I’m finally putting my lovely Indian fabric to good use. Nikki has a new dress, and Julie has a shirt and capri pants. Maddie’s next. Watch for the family in the funky Indian tie-died clothes at Folk Festival!

Summer time and the livin' is easy

Notice any difference between the months? In June, we had to colour code the calendar because there were so many days that two or three family members had to be in different places at the same time. And July? Well, we flipped the page, and suddenly there is a blank slate ahead of us. Ahhhhh... how I love blank slates!

We started off on the right foot with a trip to the beach yesterday, and a family bike trip to the Forks for Canada Day celebrations today. (That's a 22 kilometre round trip! The longest we've done as a family.)

It's hot, hot, hot, and we're tired, tired, tired (in fact, Marcel is lying on the couch next to me snoring right now), but we're oh so happy that it's summer!

Happy Canada Day and Happy Summer!

Holding Zimbabwe in my heart

Today, as my heart aches for the people of Zimbabwe who are left with so little to hope for in an election that is not really an election, I wrote this note to my friend Pugeni...

Pugeni – my prayers are with you and all of the people of Zimbabwe today. I pray that God will see you through this time, and that your hopeful hearts and loving spirits will continue to shine through the shadows. I pray that peace and justice will come to your country in the months to come.

Every time I hear of Zimbabwe in the news, I think of you and your ready smile and teasing wit. I think of the fun we had when you first walked on snow and learned what a Slurpee is. I think of the way you challenged me to continue to seek justice and equality for people who live with hunger. I think of the way you marvelled at my big North American house and how you made me realize just how much I have to give away.

Peace be with you. I hope to see you again some day.

Gulp

We went out for lunch today to celebrate the birthday of our receptionist, a university student who's working here for her summer job. She just turned 20.

After lunch, it occurred to me that I am wearing a skirt that I got when she was about 2 years old.

Either I'm old, or I keep my clothes too long. Or both.

June has eaten me alive

It’s been one of those months. The kind of month that sucks you in at the beginning, chews you up, and then spits you out the other side. There have been very few pauses in this crazy whirlwind of a month. A business trip to Toronto, a week of board meetings, a big event for our organization’s 25th anniversary (which I mc’d and did much of the organizing for), three weekend-long soccer tournaments (two of which were across the border into the States), multiple soccer games and/or practices almost every night of the week, meetings with out-of-town staff… I am exhausted. And chewed up into little bits.

This morning, when it occurred to me that Summer is officially upon us and I barely had a chance to slow down and enjoy Spring, I was left with an unsettled, dissatisfied feeling. It’s all slipping by too fast. I need to hit the pause button.

Fortunately, after this week is over (another busy week), soccer will end, work will slow down, and Folk Festival will be just around the corner.

On another note, I don’t know how much longer I’ll be blogging. It’s becoming less and less of a priority and interest.

Birthday girls

Julie shares her birthday with a couple of her friends. This is one of them - they had soccer games on adjacent fields tonight.

Acceptance

I am home and travel weary. Four sleeps in various beds across southern Ontario (business travel). One sleep in a bed in Grand Forks (soccer tournament). Too many meetings. Too many polite-introductions-followed-by-polite-small-talk conversations. Too many hours in too many cars on too many speeding freeways. Too many “I’ll just forgive myself for eating these few extra bites” meals.

It occurs to me – after a week of traveling in relatively familiar territory – that the degree of familiarity of the space I am in does not necessarily equal the degree to which I will feel at home. In fact, I can (and did) feel completely at home in a remote village on a remote island off the coast of India, wandering down a dirt path holding the hand of a complete stranger whose command of English is minimal. Conversely, I can feel utterly out of place in a room full of people who’ve been raised in the same country, with the same language, and essentially the same faith traditions as I was raised with.

It begs the question “who is my neighbour?” And another question “how do I make sure people feel at home in my presence?”

Just because

Make a wish...

Growing up

We rush through the stages with the first one, excited for every new thing they do. By the time the third child comes around, it's become old hat and, when we look back, we can barely remember when they cut their first tooth, when they learned to walk, or when they first said "mommy".

Sometimes I'm caught off guard how much Maddie has developed while I was busy not paying enough attention. Today she was determined to cook me lunch. She had a little trouble with the can opener (note to self: buy a left-handed can opener if she continues to show an interest in cooking), but once it was opened, she emptied the soup into the pot, added the water, stirred it while it got hot, then ladeled it into my bowl. She also opened a can of juice concentrate, added water, stirred, and filled a glass for me. She was very proud to sit down with me and eat the meal she had prepared.

"Tomorrow, maybe I'll cook you supper and you and Daddy can just sit and relax."

Here's hoping she'll soon be cooking me the kind of meals Liz gets to enjoy when her kids cook!

Completely random

Not that I necessarily thought she would have made the best president, but I’m a little disappointed we won’t see a woman leading the most powerful country in the world for at least another 4 years. Perhaps we can at least hope for the first person of colour. (We already had our first woman Prime Minister in Canada, but she didn’t last very long.)

*************

Speaking of woman in leadership, I wish it weren’t only the alpha females (the ones who seem to do the best at imitating the styles of their male counterparts) who rise to the highest positions of leadership. We need more women in leadership, but we need more variety in the leadership styles women bring with them too.

**************

Biking home from a soccer game last night, Nikki was in a particularly chatty mood (it helped that she won “player of the game” for the second time this season). “We’re studying the first world war in school right now. I told Madame I wished we would study the second world war instead, because that’s the one I know the most about. Like how Hitler killed 6 million Jews and blah, blah, blah (the details she spouts off don’t always stick in my less-detail-oriented brain). I was reading Grandpa’s history books the other night and…” That’s the detail that sticks in my brain because that’s the moment my eyes filled with tears as I had a mental picture of my dad delighting in a conversation about the war with his history-obsessed twelve-year-old granddaughter. He’d get that sideways smirk on his face and we’d all know how proud he was. I only wish it could happen.

**************

To the spammers who’ve taken over my in-box – I DO NOT WANT a blue sexy pill! I do not want it in the rain, I do not want it while in Spain. I do not want it with a mouse, I do not want it in my house. I DO NOT WANT it Sam I Am!

**************

The other night my sister and I went to a funky little downtown coffeehouse/art gallery to hear a musician who (whom?) I’d heard on the radio and was intrigued with. They had an open mike, so 4 different musicians got up to play, then they had an opening band, and then they had the two headliners. In all, we heard 7 talented musicians (almost as many musicians as there were audience members). A couple of them didn’t float my boat, but all of them were more talented than almost anyone you hear on pop radio these days (I have preteen girls and have to listen to WAY too much pop radio). It just doesn’t make sense that Britney Spears can make millions and these amazing musicians have to eek out a meagre existence playing hole-in-the-wall coffee houses. Where’s the justice?

**************

To the “competent” people at the “lovely” car dealership who have already “fixed” our blinking traction control light twice in a couple of months, charging us $340 each time and telling us it was two different sensors that both coincidentally broke within months and THEN having the nerve to tell us (the third time we brought the car in for the SAME blinking light less than a week later) that it was yet another “new” problem, but they would be SO generous as to give us 50% off the next repair job and only charge us $400 – DO YOU THINK WE’RE STUPID? Oh and the “free” oil change you so “generously” gave us when Marcel pointed out that you had very obviously charged us too much labour – can I watch you DRINK the oil instead? Just one more thing… about the “customer service” woman who argued with me on the phone and basically called me a liar, can you point out to her that her title means that she “serves the customer”? Maybe she needs a refresher.

The graduate

Five and a half years have passed, and Marcel is finished University.
Fifteen years ago, I married a truck driver who was a high school drop-out. Now I'm married to a teacher with two degrees. I guess you CAN teach an old dog new tricks!

A complicated sadness

(I wrote this on Sunday night, but wasn't ready to post it until now.)

I didn’t see it coming.

The weekend was full of celebrating. Little Jack had been born. He was healthy and strong. The tumour that had worried all of us since it was discovered on a 20 week ultrasound was disappearing almost before our eyes. The mark that was left seemed little more than a birthmark – a little anti-climactic after the months of tears and angst and unanswered questions that baffled even the doctors.

I was rejoicing to hold my new nephew. Rejoicing to see my sister welcome her son. Rejoicing to see my little niece so in love with her little brother. Rejoicing to see the family all return home to their own house.

I didn’t see the sadness coming.

It snuck up on me. The first twinges came as I watched my sister nursing her son on her couch in her home. I thought it was tiredness from watching a two-year-old for a few days, staying up too late to welcome the out-of-town family who’d come to rejoice with us, and living through the emotional roller-coaster as fear turned to hope which turned to joy.

The twinges grew when I climbed into the bathtub hours later. “I think I’ll have a hot bath,” I’d said. “I’m feeling a little tired and achy.” I thought it would be refreshing. I didn’t know that my body was trying to tell me to escape to a quiet place where I could entertain the feelings that were creeping up in me.

The first tears surprised me. “What’s this?” I wondered. “I’m supposed to be happy. My sister has a new son and he’s HEALTHY. It’s better news than we even dared hope for.” But then melancholy waved its hand in front of my face to get my attention. “Remember me?” it whispered. “Your old companion? It may be seven and a half years, and I may not visit very often anymore, but I’m still with you.”

Then deep and abiding sadness, my old friend, wrapped its familiar arms around me and I nestled in, letting the tears flow. Trying to resist the sting of guilt over what seemed like utter selfishness, I whispered my truth to the bathroom tiles. “My sister got to bring her son home, and I didn’t. The answer to her prayer was ‘yes’. Why did I have to live with a ‘no’?”

I climbed out of the tub and did the only thing I know how to do when sadness creeps in and consumes me – I went to visit my son. At his grave I sat and wept. I wept for the lost years, for the empty arms, for the milk-filled breasts that didn’t get to nurture my son. I wept for the lost potential, for the “what ifs”, for the “what age would he be now?”

As I wept, I recognized – and almost welcomed - the comfortable warmth of tears on my cheeks. These were not bitter tears – nor were they tears of jealousy. These tears were the healing reminders of what had grown to become a comfortable sadness. Adding to the mix this time were tears of joy for the little boy I’ll get the privilege of watching as he grows up – a little boy who bears the family genetics of both my husband and myself.

“Matthew, I miss you. I wish you could be here to meet your cousin.”

As I whispered my son’s name, I knew that I was rich beyond measure for the complicated sadness that had filled the hole his death left behind.

Blogging from the front lawn

The lovely Abby fell asleep in the car on the way home from the hospital this morning, so instead of disturbing her sleep (since she's had a fairly disruptive couple of days and needs some rest), I'm perched on a lawn chair near the car and trying to hold the laptop in just the right position to connect to the wireless internet.

It's a lovely day today, in more ways than one. We've had too many cold, windy, dreary days lately, so this morning the warm sun is a welcome delight. And the sunshine mirrors our mood around here. It feels like just the right kind of "day after".

I sat and held Jack for a long time this morning, and as I gazed into his peaceful sleeping face, I had to choke back tears. When you've longed for something so badly and you almost didn't dare to hope for it, the blessing at the end of the darkness can almost overwhelm you. This family has known too many stories that didn't end well, so we knew better than to casually assume "it wouldn't happen to us".

There are still many unknowns about Jack's future, but I heard the doctor say this morning that "things have gone so much better than we might have expected" and those are words enough for me to hang onto this optimism.

Almost as good as seeking Jack look so beautifully normal is the sight of my sister looking like someone at peace.

Peace and hope are two of my favourite words today.

Beautiful baby

I have a new nephew named Jack. He's beautiful. He has a full head of dark hair (not quite as dark as his sister's, but still fairly dark.) In almost every way, he is so blessedly, beautifully normal. He cries like a newborn, nurses like a pro, makes little squeaking noises when he sleeps, wiggles and squirms - does all the things a newborn is supposed to do.

There is still no real news about the tumour (or whatever its technical name is) on his back, but the size of it is much smaller than I expected from having seen it on the ultrasound. And it doesn't seem to be alarming the doctors too much, because for the most part, he is being treated like a healthy newborn, spending much of today in his mommy's room, being passed from arm to loving arm of his mom, dad, sister, grandma, auntie, uncle, cousins, and friend.

Tomorrow some time, J-L will probably get a chance to post over at Jack's blog, and you can hear about it from the proud daddy's perspective, but as the proud auntie, let me just say that I feel so incredibly blessed today.

As I drove home from the hospital, I listened to Sara Groves sing "hope has a way of turning its face to you just when you least expect it", and I wept, because after weeks of not knowing what today would bring, this feels alot like hope.

Just hangin' around waiting for Jack to be born

We're getting a little impatient, but we're finding ways to fill the time.

I'd almost forgotten what it's like to have a 2 year old around the house. Just how many questions can one small person ask in a day? (I'm having flashbacks to my firstborn.) And did it REALLY take an hour to wash a few pots and pans back then? How did I ever get anything done?

Stay tuned for the arrival of Abby's little brother...

And since you're all good people, why don't you pop on over to that blog I just linked, say a little prayer for the safe and happy arrival of little Jack, and then send him a welcoming postcard.

To Jack

(I wrote this the last time my sister was expecting a baby. I was going to write something new this time, but when I read it, I couldn't come up with enough inspiration to change it. So here's to recycling - with a few changes...)

To Jack
I can’t wait to meet you
little one
I can’t wait to hold my cheek against yours
to kiss the top of your head
and let you wrap your little fingers
around my thumb

I wonder
will you be dark like your daddy (and sister)
will you have red hair like your grandpa
will your laugh ring out with delight
like your mommy’s
will you be effervescent and bold
like your sister
will you always want to play "would you rather"
like your cousin
will your compassion be your compass
like your grandma

I hope
you will be innocent yet wise
questioning yet accepting
compassionate yet strong
bold yet cautious
fanciful yet practical
cynical yet full of wide-eyed wonder

I know
you will be blessed beyond words
with
a daddy who will
adore you and spend hours just gazing at you
a mommy who will
help you dance to the mystery of life
and delight in discovering the world through your eyes
a sister who will
show you all the wonders of the world
and introduce you to all of her favourite people
a grandma who will
climb trees with you and
teach you about love
a mémère and pépère who will spoil you
cousins who will smother you with kisses
and lead you to adventure
aunties and uncles who will
fight over who gets to hold you
and be there for you ever moment you need them

I want
to watch you grow
to see you dance
to follow you for hours when you learn to walk
(especially if it’s at Folk Festival)
to hear you laugh
to be there when you need a grown-up who’s not mommy or daddy
to read you stories
and to see parts of the world with you that you’ve never seen before

I love you already little one
you will enter the world
surrounded and protected
by love

Friday five

I lost another 3 pounds (that’s a total of 18, if you’re counting). Which is kind of surprising, since I’ve allowed Nutella-by-the-spoonful to become an integral part of my daily diet.

Speaking of diets… last night I surprised the girls and took them out for ice cream after soccer – and we hadn’t even had supper yet. It kind of blew their minds. Just before Julie got in the car, I said to Nikki “watch this – this time when she asks for ice cream, I’m going to surprise her and say YES.” Julie is very predictable that way – she asks for ice cream after EVERY soccer game and/or practice. She never really expects me to say yes, though.

Marcel has been substitute teaching almost every day since he started. And he’s in such a good mood, it’s contagious. (I’m glad I accepted that first French immersion job, because he figured out he could do it and now he’s getting all kinds of jobs in French immersion schools.)

Next week, I get to meet my new nephew, Jack. AND I get to hang out with my lovely niece Abby for a couple of days. I can’t wait!

I have nothing to do this long weekend. NOTHING! That’s a beautiful word. After the craziness of last weekend (OH MY GOSH – about 9 commitments in 2 days), and almost every evening so far this month, I’m looking forward to some leisurely time of just doin’ nothin’. PLUS the weather has finally turned around, so look for me on my bike or at the playground… or picking dandelions with Maddie. Picnic, anyone?

A little surreal

Almost 5 years ago, we were in a church hall in a town not far from here, celebrating my Uncle H and Auntie M's 50th wedding anniversary. It was a pleasant summer day. Maddie had just learned to walk (well - run really - she rarely bothered to walk) and wanted to spend most of the day wandering around the reception hall. For awhile I took her outside so that she could walk on the grass. My dad chuckled at her and then offered to give me a break while he happily followed her down the hall. (My introverted dad usually tired of big gatherings, so I'm sure he was happy for a little break.)

It was a pretty ordinary day. We don't see much of our aunts and uncles and cousins, so it was nice to connect with them. And of course it was lovely to spend some time with mom and dad.

That was the last time I saw my dad alive. It was the last time Maddie got to make her grandpa laugh. Two weeks later, he was killed very suddenly in a farm accident.

Another two weeks later, Uncle H, who'd just celebrated his golden wedding anniversary with his family gathered from all across Canada, dropped dead of a heart attack. We were back at that church for his funeral. And then two months after that, my grandma (dad's mom) died.

This Saturday, sitting next to my mom, who has since remarried, I was back in that same church hall, sitting at approximately the same table, watching Auntie M get married again too. (It was also the same church where I'd helped carry my grandma's casket to her grave.)

Sometimes it's a little surreal how life shakes you up and rearranges the furniture.

Are you up for a challenge?

With the global food crisis looming larger and larger every day, we're issuing a challenge to people - eat nothing but the rations a person might receive in a refugee camp (or after being hit by a cyclone) for three days. You can read more about it here.

A daily ration is 400 grams of cereal (rice, flour, oatmeal, cornmeal, etc.), 50 grams of pulses (lentils, beans, etc.), 50 grams of oil, and 5 grams of salt. Plus water. Nothing else.

Do you think you can do it? If you follow the link above, you can find a video of a family that tried it.

Our family is thinking of trying it, but the girls are reluctant to do it while they're in school, so perhaps in July. "But not during Folk Fest," say the girls, "cause we HAVE to have whale's tails." Perhaps we'll do it in the days leading up to Folk Fest.

Anyone want to join us?

Yikes!

Marcel is a teacher! He just got his first substitute teaching job today! He's getting PAID to teach!

After 5 and a half years of university, lots of stress and agony, way too many assignments that I had to edit... he's actually teaching!

He got thrown into the deep end today - teaching high school French Immersion (and two of his classes are law). Yikes! His French is a little weak for that. But the electronic "sub-finder" that called our house last night lets you either "accept" or "decline" and doesn't give you an option for "wait a second - I have to call my husband home from his cousin's place and let HIM decide." So I hit "accept" and thus launched him rather haphazardly into his teaching career.

I just got an email from him saying he's doing well and the students are quite well behaved. Whew!

The jet set life

This week I had a whirlwind trip to Ottawa to participate in a big (and rather crazy) press conference. (Thanks to the federal government for giving us more money to support hungry people in the middle of this food crisis.)

I had just enough spare time for a quick jaunt around the parliament buildings for a little photo fun. (Okay - truthfully, I had time for TWO jaunts around the parliament buildings. The second time was to try to find the cell phone I'd lost. D'oh! I suppose I shouldn't slip a cell phone in my pocket when I'm planning to lie around on the grass taking pictures of tulips.)

I've been to Ottawa about a dozen times, but I never seem to be there when the tulips bloom. Except this time. What a treat!

After spending a couple of days with government communicators again, I was reminded why I am no longer one of them. I never could get the "look" quite right - the well-coiffed hair, the well-pressed suit, the blackberry on the hip, the shiny high heeled shoes, a copy of the Globe and Mail tucked under the arm. I fit in alot better in a non-profit organization, where you're expected to look like you just stepped off a plane from a developing country. I do "rumpled" really well!

You can see other photos here, if you're interested... http://www.flickr.com/photos/fumblingforwords/sets/72157604852224741/ (my linky things not working properly.)

The things he does for me

Sometimes it's the little things.

Whenever I leave for a business trip (like today), Marcel always calls a cab for me. I don't know if I've ever told him how supportive and affirming that feels.

I guess this is my way of telling him.

Just look for me where all the action is

Back in 2003, SARS, West Nile virus, mad cow disease, and bird flu all hit Canada within a 3 month period (more or less). And where was I at the time? Working in media relations at the only lab in the country that had live culture of all of those diseases and was doing research and diagnostics on them. I fielded 600 media calls in 3 months. Talk about trial by fire! CBC, BBC, 60 Minutes, NPR, Nipon TV (Japan) - they all had my number.

Fast forward five years... a global food crisis hits, and where am I? Doing media relations (among other things) at the only NGO in the country focused solely on global hunger issues. Reporters are putting me on speed dial once again. I haven't gotten close to the 600 mark yet, but there's still time.

Fortunately, I perform well under pressure. For awhile, anyway. There's always a breaking point.

(For those of you in Winnipeg who might have caught the 2 page feature on hunger, featuring our organization - that was one of my photos on the second page. It's the picture of a woman carrying a bag of rice.)

There's hope

Despite their many (loud and sometimes vicious) attempts to convince me they can't stand each other...every once in awhile there's a little glimmer of hope when I find them curled up on the couch reading a book together...or baking a cake together.And when I remember how much I now like my sister compared to how I felt 30 years ago... well, I'm downright optimistic!

This fragile world

Yay!

My irises are coming up
There are ladybugs in abundance on the front lawn
The bocci-balls we bought at a garage sale last fall have seen their inaugural use
Nikki and Julie have healthy colour on their faces from hours of soccer practice
I rode my bike to work this morning
Maddie’s pink bike with training wheels has been around the block a few times
I singed my eyebrows lighting the barbecue on Saturday (there’s a reason why it’s Marcel’s job!)
On the swings, Maddie shouted “I can fly!”
Slurpees!
Birkenstocks with no socks
Capri pants and t-shirts
Budding trees
Eating breakfast on the front lawn watching Maddie blow bubbles

AAAaaahhhh…

IT’S SPRING!

(sorry Calgary!)

Momin's Pumpkin

Note: If you're getting tired of my stories from India and Bangladesh, feel free to ignore this post. I'm doing some writing for work and thought I might as well post it here too.

The pumpkin plant grows healthy and strong, as though there were nothing out of the ordinary about its surroundings or its origin. The sun glints through the trees and touches on a healthy, round, and nearly ripe pumpkin peeking out from between the leaves.

It’s such an ordinary thing, this pumpkin plant. For a passerby, it holds no particular meaning. But as Rina Fokir points to it and tells us her story, tears well up in her eyes.

On November 14th, Rina’s 4 year old daughter Momin planted the seed that would result in this healthy pumpkin plant. It was just an ordinary day, with mother and daughter doing ordinary things. Momin's 3 year old brother Rajib was probably playing nearby. Perhaps they were even singing. There was hope in that little seed being buried in the ground.

The next day, November 15th, at 9:30 at night, Cyclone Sidr hit their village. In the dark, Momin’s father Mamnan clung to his daughter with one hand, while trying desperately to hold onto a tree trunk with the other. A thirty foot wave washed over them, taking with it their home and everything they owned. Despite her father’s frantic attempts to save her, and Momin’s own attempt to clutch her mother’s hair, the little girl was swept away by the wave, never to be seen again.

Now, 4 months later, Rina and Mamnan try to rebuild their lives. With whatever bits and pieces of metal and wood the wave left washed up on the land, they’ve patched together a makeshift home near the empty foundation of their former home. In front of the concrete steps where their home once stood, the pumpkin plant flourishes. Every day, it reminds them of the little girl who planted it.

Weeping, Rina returns to her crooked patchwork house. She sits inside the doorway, wiping the tears from her eyes. The rest of my group wander off to visit another family, but I am left rooted to the ground like that pumpkin plant. My mother heart tears apart as I think of my own small child at home, just a few years older than Momin. My tears come as I meet Rina’s eyes.

What can I say to her? What gesture can I leave with her that shows that I am not just a voyeuristic foreigner come to take pictures of her grief? I step closer to her home and put my hand on my heart as I gaze across the remains of her old home into her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I say, my voice cracking. “So sorry.” I know she can’t understand my words, but perhaps there is something in our shared motherhood that reaches across the distance of different lifestyles, different countries, and different languages and touches her broken heart.

Free from WHAT?!?

I was happy to learn that, at least in Bangladesh, I didn't have to worry about arsenic in my drinking water. Ever wonder what's in YOUR water?

Sleep

If Mr. Ferber is right and sleep patterns have anything to do with parenting choices and abilities, then I have reason to be depressed. That would imply that our parenting skills regressed fairly dramatically from our first child to our last.

Our first child slept through the night at two weeks of age and has been doing so consistently ever since. Our second child started sleeping through the night at about 2 or 3 months of age, but then at 5 months, she regressed and started waking up again. After about 4 months of that, she got her groove back, and other than a few brief periods in toddler-hood has been a pretty consistent sleeper since.

Our third child? Well, she's 6 years old and STILL has fairly regular periods where she wakes up every night. Last night she climbed into our bed twice (and both times, after a short cuddle, was sent back to her bed).

Come to think of it, the same thing happened with potty training - the last one took the longest and caused the most frustration. Oh - and soother-sucking too. She only gave up her soother at the age of three when we convinced her that my sister's upcoming baby would need a soother and perhaps she could pass it on.


Now I'm REALLY getting depressed.


Apparently, I've forgotten everything I once knew about parenting.

Pictures!

After spending way too many hours over the weekend messing with my trip pictures, I finally have them loaded onto Flickr. (Well, actually I only loaded about a quarter of them, and yet there are probably still too many of them for anyone other than my photo-obsessed big brother.) You can find them here.

Here's one of my favourites - I call it "Bum and Bells."

Most pre-potty-trained toddlers run around naked and many of them wear bells like these. I'm not sure why, but I suppose it helps warn the parents if they're wandering off into potential danger (especially since there are loads of fish ponds, rivers, and canals dotting the countryside). I guess this father didn't mind running the risk of getting peed on.

By the way, if you're wandering through my photos, please consider leaving some friendly comments - I'd love to know which are people's favourites.

Note: I hope the new watermark on my Flickr photos isn't too distracting. I don't mind people using my pictures, but I prefer it if they ask first - hence the watermark.

Missing

Pharmin Khatun, age 16, missing. Manila Purkite, age 14, missing. Raksha Khatun, age 11, missing.

Pages and pages of names. Listed under the current status for most of them was one word - “missing”. Only one or two on each page said “restore” or “rescue”.

Each name represented a young girl missing from the villages we visited in Mandir Bazer, West Bengal, India. All of them were presumed to have been taken to the big cities and forced into the sex trade.

Lost in the never-ending grip of poverty, families in the region look for whatever hope they can find to help them survive. Girls are expendable. Girls cost money. Girls require dowries when they reach marriageable age.

A trustworthy-looking man visits the village and tells the family, “Send your daughters with me. I will take them to the city and help them find good jobs. Then they can send money home to their families. Your lives will all be improved. Trust me.”

They trust him and send off their girls. Fourteen year old girls. Eleven year old girls. Girls just like the three carefree daughters I would be going home to in a week’s time.

The young and dedicated staff of HASUS sat around the table and told us stories of the girls they were trying to find and rescue. They showed us the home they were building to house those that were lucky enough to be found and returned to the village. We met a deaf girl who had little chance of survival except for the compassion of the staff of HASUS. We met some of the young women who were part of a retraining program – learning sewing skills so that at least they would be employable. In most cases, their families didn’t want them back when they returned as damaged goods.

Two weeks later I am still shaken by the horror of giving up my daughter because the poverty wraps me so tightly in a cocoon I can’t imagine any other way out.

The hardest night

After hours of bumping along on narrow rough roads raised high about the flood plains, careening wildly past rickshaws and pedestrians and trucks and bicycle transport vehicles carrying everything from cages of chickens to bamboo poles stretching far ahead of the cyclists, we pulled into the gate of a large complex.

“This is where we will stay,” said our host as we glanced around at our rather puzzling surroundings. Expecting a hotel or guest house, instead we were in the middle of what used to be a large government training centre and housing facility – a place that had long since been abandoned by whoever had envisioned a purpose for this mess of buildings and paths and ponds and fences. It looked a little like a sixty year old university campus that had seen ten years of use and then been left to crumble slowly back into the earth.

“One of the problems we have in Bangladesh,” continued our host, “is that when our government changes, they abandon any projects that were started by the last government in power. This place is a good example of that. Totally abandoned by the government. Some people rent space in some of the buildings, but mostly it sits empty. Nobody cares for it any more.”

In one section of the compound, the army had taken over a few buildings. Soldiers lounged in the shade of an overhanging roof. In another area, the group that was hosting us made use of a few stark-looking offices in a ramshackle building where doors hung precariously on rusty hinges. In another area, we saw signs of people living in parts of a large dormitory. We never learned who these people were or why they lived there. Occasionally, we saw a child playing quietly on a decrepit play structure.

The van pulled up in front of the place that would be our home for the next two nights. Calling it one of the nicest buildings in the complex only slightly raises its merit. It was decrepit. And dirty. And sadly beaten down and unloved. At one time, it had been the home of the training facility’s director and his family, so it showed some signs of past comfort - like a large pillared patio in the front and a small sunroom off the main bedroom - but time and the ravages of too much heat and too many storms and too many bugs and other critters had taken their toll. Broken windows hanging on battered hinges, war era cots on rusty bed frames, layers of dust and mouse droppings – this is what greeted us when we entered.

Perhaps worst of all were the bathrooms. Broken or missing toilet seats (or no toilets at all – just holes in the ground), filthy sinks, signs of human excrement plastered on floors and walls… and the smell. OH the smell!

It took us a long time to go to bed that night. Still suffering from jetlag and too many hours on the road, we were all beyond exhaustion. But none of us felt inclined to venture into the bedrooms. It just felt like too much to bear for our overly-pampered Canadian sentiments. We tried to make light of it, but underneath, there was an unmistakable tone of disappointment.

At some point in the evening, someone showed up to do some rough wiring (the kind of makeshift wiring one can only imagine if you’ve visited a developing country), with the intention of giving us access to electricity in the bedrooms. Ceiling fans were supposed to offer us some respite from the oppressive heat.

Not long after the wiring happened, though, the power flickered off. Standard fare for Bangladesh – just wait an hour or two, it might come back on again. If you’re lucky. We lit candles.

Then the storm started – a storm like I have never seen before. Sheets of rain erased any sign of other buildings across the compound. Wind whipped through the courtyard, bending huge palm trees to their knees. We stood at the open door and gaped at the power of that storm. Was this a cyclone? We’d seen the devastating impact of a cyclone just the day before in a village where every home, animal, fishing boat and many people had been ripped apart and destroyed.

The storm didn’t last long, though, and then it was back to contemplating whether we could actually settle down to sleep on beds that looked like they’d been left behind after a concentration camp closed down. Sleep gnawed at our eyelids, and eventually we could avoid it no longer.

In my room there were 2 beds. I chose the one that looked the least suspect (ie. had the cleanest sheet) and lowered the dusty, tattered mosquito netting. No screens on the windows or doors meant that I was sharing the room with about a hundred mosquitoes. The mosquito net didn’t offer a lot of hope, however, with it’s worn out seams and peppering of holes. I tried to ignore the myriad of blood stains from past visitors.

Before climbing under the mosquito net, I hovered over the seatless toilet while swatting hungry mosquitoes that landed on my exposed backside. I brushed my teeth with water from the bottle I’d brought with me and closed my eyes to ignore the dirt on the sink as I spit into it.

Back in the bedroom, I tried to pretend that the thing that fell from my mattress while I tucked in the mosquito net was not, in fact, a cockroach. With nothing more than candle-light to guide me, I couldn’t be too sure what I saw.

I also tried to pretend that the geckos on my walls would stop their loud clicking noises once I blew out the flame. I was wrong. Geckos can talk all night long. And wild dogs fighting outside your window can sound very much like dying children.

With no bedding other than the dirty sheet and pillow on the bed, I tried to make myself reasonably comfortable on the lumpy mattress. I wrapped a towel around the pillow to give at least my head a clean place to lie.

For the next few hours, I lay with my earphones in my ears, listening to music to try to transport myself away from the discomforts of that place. Thank god for mp3 players. Mosquitoes attacked my head relentlessly, geckos clicked, dogs snarled, hot air wrapped itself around me, and I lay sleepless.

At 3:00 a.m., the power clicked back on and the fan whirred to life. With it, a bright fluorescent light transformed the darkness to stark white daylight. Too much light – I didn’t really want to see how truly disgusting the sheets were. I climbed out from under the useless mosquito netting and tried to find the appropriate light switch. Though there were at least half a dozen switches in the room, none of them extinguished the glare. I tried again. Nothing. I stepped out of the room to look for a switch in the hall. None. I tried all the switches two more times. Still nothing. It seems that when they wired my room, they’d forgotten to wire the light to a switch. I was stuck with the light for the rest of the night.

I climbed back under the mosquito netting and cried.

Eventually, I managed to drift off to sleep for a few brief moments. But then the diarrhea started and I found myself making repeated visits to the seatless toilet in the dirty bathroom.

Morning finally arrived. Relieved, I stepped out of the room to greet my fellow travelers. It was then that I noticed my legs. They were covered with hundreds of red welts. Bed bugs had feasted on my bare skin.

Later that morning, we drove through the village. We saw miles and miles of meager homes - shacks made from bamboo poles and corrugated tin sheets. Some of them had been torn apart by the storm the night before.

After a leisurely boat ride, we stopped to visit a work site where hundreds of men laboured to dig the mud out of the bottom of canals. They were trying to re-excavate the canals so that they could provide better drainage during the rainy season and better irrigation when it was dry. Covered in mud, these men worked tirelessly, lifting baskets of mud on their heads, climbing up the steep sides, and depositing the mud at the top of the embankment. For their back-breaking labour, they were paid with enough grain to keep their families fed each day. Nothing more.
At the next site, the women of the community were carrying the mud that had been excavated from the canals a few days ago, depositing it on the top of roads to raise the roads above the level of the floods that come every year, and patting it down to avoid erosion. Dig mud, fill basket, carry it to the top, dump, hammer it down with sticks, repeat. Endlessly repeat. In mind-numbing sameness day in and day out.
At the end of the day, these people go home to their tin shacks. The women gather their children from wherever they have spent the day and they prepare whatever meal they can muster from what they’ve been paid that week. Rice and perhaps, if they’re lucky, some curried lentils. They eat a few grains of rice with their family, lie down on their mud floors with no mosquito nets, mattresses, or pillows, and they sleep. Probably too exhausted to notice bed bugs or mosquitoes or geckos or heat or cockroaches or fighting dogs. The next morning they get up and repeat the cycle.

When the rains come (which will happen in a few months), they abandon their homes and camp out on embankments until the flood ends. Every year, their homes are flooded, and year after year they have to rebuild their lives. Some years, a cyclone comes and takes with it their children, their homes, and whatever livestock they’ve managed to buy from their hand-to-mouth wages.

That night, back at our accommodations, we ate our meal of rice and two kinds of curried vegetables and fish and fresh bottled water and yoghurt and fresh fruit and tea with sugar. And then we rested under the shade of our sturdy home-away-from-home, where everything had remained dry even in the vicious storm of the night before.

I tried to swallow the shame of my discomfort and complaints.

I'm a big loser

But a big winner too! With my 15 pound loss since Christmas, I'm the winner of our office's "Biggest Loser" competition.

I now have $100 to spend on new Spring clothes to fit the slimmer me. Yippee!

Faces

(Just a taste of things to come)

Home again, home again, jiggity jog

In case you're still popping in to this rather quiet space now and then and you're wondering if perhaps I fell off the face of the earth, don't worry, I'm still alive.

I made it back home from India in the wee hours of the morning on Tuesday. But I was only home long enough to sleep off a bit of jet-lag, do a load of laundry, have a hot shower in a clean bathroom (oh, what a luxury!), and meet my new niece, and then it was off for a couple of days of girl-bonding and rejuvenating poolside with my mom, my sister, my daughters and my niece.

How was the trip, you ask? Well, it will take some time to answer that question. Parts of it were amazing and exhilarating, like the hours spent on a rather rickety wooden boat visiting the Sundarban islands. And the miles and miles of picturesque rice fields and fish ponds. And the many delicious meals of curry and lentils and seafood of various kinds. And then there were the people - so many wonderful, genuine, compassionate and brave people.

But more parts of it were really quite hard. This was definitely the hardest trip I've ever taken. I've been to developing countries before, and I've seen some pretty difficult things, but nothing I've seen in Africa quite prepared me for this.

I think the difference can be summed up in one word - hope. Most of the people I've met in Africa have at least a small amount of hope for the future. "When the rains come, our crops will be better." "When the government changes, things will turn around." "When the conflict ends..."

But in this trip - especially in parts of India - there seems to be a depressing lack of hope. Most of the people we met are of the lowest caste in the country - the "untouchables". They are simply resigned to the fact that life will never get much better than it is right now. The government won't make any effort to change things (even though they're more economically stable than in the past), they'll never have access to land so even the weather won't change things for the better, and most of the other people in their country believe that they deserve no better than they're getting. The resulting hopelessness evokes a certain deadness in their eyes that's going to stay with me for a long time.

Add to that a number of rather horrible accommodations (bed bugs, dirty sheets, stinky bathrooms, sporadic electricity, noisy geckos, mosquitoes), many, many hours of bumpy roads and scary drivers dodging rickshaws and bicycle transport, and a head cold that started on the flight there and hasn't ended yet, and it makes for a rather tough couple of weeks.

It's going to take a while to process all that I've seen, so bear with me if I write about it from time to time. There are some memories I won't be able to get out of my mind until I process them a little more, and for me that usually involves writing about it. So you'll probably get to share some of the processing.

Hopefully in the next day or two, I'll have some pictures posted.

Thirteen things I don't want to forget

Is it Thursday today? I'm really not sure, but in case it is, here are thirteen things I don't want to forget about this trip.

1. The little girl in Barguna who followed me around grinning and reciting her new English words "We are all connected."

2. The giggling little girl in the low caste Musahar village where no on else smiled for the first hour of our visit.

3. Sitting on the boat, listening to the drumbeats along the shore.

4. Children running through the village covered in paint from the Holi festival.

5. The woman who proudly showed us her sewing machine and ner new sewing skills.

6. Those moments in airports when we were greeted by our hosts and I could relax because the planning had been successful and nobody's wires had been crossed.

7. The relief of two exceptionally good camera men.

8. Rickshaw rides.

9. Darting through chaotic traffic and emerging alive on the other side.

10. Standing at the top of ferry boats and watching other boats go by.

11. Sleeping in a clean guest house after too many nights of bed bugs and dirty sheets.

12. All that lovely fabric coming home in my luggage.

13. Flower petals thrown by giggling school children.

Battered but not broken

On November 15, these children and their families lived through Cyclone Sidr. Winds of up to 250 kilometres and a wall of water about thirty feet high wiped out their homes, their livestock, their food, their fishing boats, and in some cases, their family members.

The cyclone hit at 9:30 at night. After dark. Those who could stay afloat searched frantically in the murky water for their loved ones. Some of the bodies were later found hanging from the treetops.

As we walked down the road, more than one person stopped to motion to me. They wanted me to understand the water washed right over the road. Right up to the treetops. Some pointed to corrugated metal from their houses still hanging in the trees.

Their stories will stick with me for a long time. So will the smiles of these resilient children.

Tomorrow we go to India and leave the beautiful people of Bangladesh behind.

Arrived!

We made it to Dhaka, Bangladesh! Most of the little hurdles have been crossed succesfully. We still don't know if we'll get into India, but I'll leave that worry for another day.

The people of Bangladesh have been incredibly hospitable and gracious. We have been warmly welcomed here.

Now here's hoping I'll sleep well tonight and tomorrow I'll no longer feel quite so much like my body's been dragged through a meat grinder. Arriving at 2:00 a.m. after 24 hours in transit is pretty exhausting.

Catch ya on the flip side

I'm going to Bangladesh. There are still some fairly major hurdles to cross, but I'm going.

In the meantime, though, I've gotta go play My Little Pony, the board game, with Maddie. She's been attached to my hip all morning - trying to get the most Mommy time she can.

I probably won't blog much, but I'll tell you all about it when I return.

Cheers!

Ongoing saga

Complication #542 - Though I can now go to the first faraway country, our new cameraperson (from the second faraway country) may not be able to enter the country. (Not just a minor inconvenience when your whole purpose of traversing the globe is to produce a film.)

I don't think I'm exagerating when I say it's the 542nd complication. Seriously. I started planning this trip in January, and nothing has gone smoothly. Absolutely nothing. When the dust settles, I'll write a long list of all the things that have gone wrong and I'll most certainly bore you all to tears.

Today, every time I open yet ANOTHER email with bad news, I find myself laughing hysterically. It's about all I can do. I'm way past Murphy's law by now.

Somehow, I must convince my brain that I really AM leaving for the other side of the world in 2 days. Somehow, I have to start getting at least marginally excited about it. How do you turn a knot of stress - that feels like it's the beginning of an ulcer - into a flutter of excited energy? How do you begin to pack for a trip you haven't been able to convince yourself you're actually taking?

Some of my colleagues are thinking of posting a "will Heather REALLY arrive at her destination?" guessing pool on the website. The winner gets a free t-shirt. Or an expired airline ticket.

Here's hoping my luck begins to change the moment I step on a plane. Provided I actually get ON the plane and don't get run over by it.

How do you spell S.T.R.E.S.S?

10:30 this morning
- 4 passports mysteriously lost in the mail/courier (yes, for those who are paying attention, AGAIN!)
- 1 possible tracking number (for the missing package with the passports) that doesn’t reveal anything was shipped
- 1 possible tracking number that shows a package was delivered to an undisclosed address in Toronto (but is it MY package with MY passport?)
- 0 people who can tell me where the package was sent
- 0 people in a particular consulate who will show any form of compassion or cooperation (or even answer the phone most days)
- 5 non-refundable airline tickets to 2 faraway countries – departure date 5 days away
- 1 camera person withdrawn from the film project (1 of the 5 non-refundable airline tickets)
- 1 possible camera person to be hired sight-unseen from one of the faraway countries
- 0 visas for 2 countries
- 1 film permit for 1 of 2 countries
- 5 days left to obtain visas, finish writing film script, pack, pray that passports arrive and film permits and visa applications are approved, sign contract with unknown camera person, make sure the family has clean laundry, get money in the necessary currency… oh, I’d better stop before I depress myself

3:30 this afternoon
- 1 less item of stress on above list. The passports have arrived in our office (I nearly kissed them) and are now on their way to the OTHER consulate (the one that knows something about customer service - the one that approved our film permit and promises visas before our departure date)

I sat in the parking lot, working up the nerve to go inside. Could I do this? Could I really make a change this big? More importantly, could I stick with it? “God,” I whispered, “if this body really is your temple, you’re going to have to help me treat it that way.” I opened the car door and walked across the parking lot.

“I want to sign up for a membership,” I told the girl behind the desk – quickly, before I could lose my nerve. “Here’s a list of the classes you can join,” she said, after I’d filled out the necessary paperwork and handed her a cheque. “There are lots of choices of times for aerobics classes, step classes, yoga, etc. Or if you prefer, you can just use the machines and weights. What time of day do you think you’ll be coming in?” “Six o’clock in the morning,” I said, gulping a little at my bravado. “Really?” that other little voice whispered in my head. “You REALLY think you can get up that early in the morning to go to the gym? Ha! You’ve gotta be kidding!”

Trying to ignore the pessimist in my brain, I set two goals for myself. Lose at least 30 pounds by my birthday (in May), and run the 2.6 mile super-run with Nikki at the marathon in June.

That was January 21st. In the seven weeks since, I’ve been at the gym at least six mornings a week – usually at six o’clock in the morning. At least forty-two times, I’ve proved the pessimist wrong.

As of this morning, I have lost 11 pounds. And just this morning I ran 2.6 miles on the treadmill without stopping. If you’re not an overweight, out-of-shape over-forty-year-old, you might not know just how good that feels. Just believe me when I say it’s so SO good.

Even better? It turns out that I LOVE going to the gym. Really love it. Crazy, eh? I look forward to it so much that I often consider going in the evening too. And on the rare weekend morning when I have to miss because of a soccer game or a trip to the airport, I’m disappointed.

Other than riding my bike in the summer and chasing after small children, I’ve done very little exercise in the twelve years that I’ve been a mom. I haven’t been a member of a gym since back in my single days. I really didn’t expect to enjoy this. I thought it would be pure torture every single day, and after a month or so of subjecting myself to torture just because I’d paid for it and didn’t want to waste the money, I’d drop out.

But – surprise, surprise – it’s not torture. Sure it’s tough, and I’m not too fond of dragging my tired body out of bed that early. But mostly it’s delightful. It’s delightful walking the three blocks to get there in the crisp quiet morning air. (Yes, I’m lucky it’s so close.) It’s delightful pushing my body to new limits. It’s delightful feeling the pain of the last push of adrenaline at the end of the workout. It’s delightful getting to know some of the other women who are mostly very much like me at a small homey neighbourhood gym. It’s especially delightful stepping into a warm shower afterwards and letting the water wash the sweat from my body.

I keep expecting the novelty will wear off (there goes that pessimist again). It hasn’t.

What surprises me the most is just how spiritual it feels to be pounding out my footprints on the treadmill or flexing my muscles on the weight machines. With my music playing in my ears, it feels like meditation – like prayer. Even a little like communion. It feels like God really is visiting this humble temple.

My new son

My new friend Pugeni has taken to calling me "Mom". Umm... that would have made me TWELVE when I gave birth to him. I think it must be a sign of respect in his culture to call an older woman Mom. I don't mind. He's a good son. :-)

He's left us for the west. I'll miss him. He inspired me in ways that will stick with me for a long, long time.

While he was here, I took him to visit the snow sculptures. They completely dumbfounded him. "People do this for RECREATION? In the FREEZING COLD? And then it all melts in the Spring?" Too puzzling for him to comprehend.
He left me with a present. A bar of soap. "This is what the rich people use in Zimbabwe." It probably cost him a fortune - especially in a country in which the economic situation is so unstable they can rarely get milk in the markets, let alone soap. (Their inflation rate is 150,000 percent. Yes, that's really FOUR zeros. He says that it's increasing so rapidly, the price of a carton of milk can go up in the time it takes to carry it to the cash register.)
He can probably never afford to buy a bar of this kind of soap for his wife, and yet he brought one for me. I feel completely humbled by it. (And I felt a little guilty remembering how I'd so callously unwrapped a bar of Dove so he could have a shower that morning.) I haven't decided whether to leave it in its wrapper on my bathroom counter to remind myself how privileged I am, or to lather up every day in honour of him. ("I'll feel like a rich woman," I said to him when he gave it to me.)

Some day, I want to go to Zimbabwe to visit him.

Embarrassed by riches

I think every North American should have the opportunity to host someone from a developing country in their home at least once in their lifetime. It's delightful to watch the wonder in their eyes, and humbling to see the shock.

Pugeni is visiting from Zimbabwe. Today was his first full day in a country outside of Southern Africa. There were many firsts for him today - the first sight of snow ("wow - I had no idea it would cover EVERYTHING! And you can walk on it!"), the first visit to a Canadian church, the first trip to a North American grocery store with shelves overflowing with abundance, the first Slurpee (my kids were determined he needed that experience), the first time bundled up in layers of jackets, gloves and a hat (while the rest of us celebrated the relatively lovely weather by walking around in unzipped jackets) - the list goes on and on. By the end of the day, he looked completely overwhelmed with the newness of it all.

Pugeni's life is so much different than ours. He is thrilled to be visiting Canada, but he can hardly comprehend all that he is seeing. "You can get milk every day from the store? In Zimbabwe, we rarely have milk available anymore." "These vegetables you're serving for lunch - this is what the rich people eat in Zimbabwe." "I think people in Canada like to drive big cars. And so many of them drive alone." "It seems like people here really like to eat." "Everything is so CHEAP here! You mean you can buy batteries for FOUR dollars?!" "You have it so GOOD here!"

The most humbling of his comments was his response to our house - a house that by North American standards in very modest (and about half of the square footage of an average-sized house). More than once, he mentioned how big our house is. That was even before he'd seen it all. There was a look of shock on his face when I took him downstairs to the family room where I'd prepared a bed for him. "You have ANOTHER room down here?" he asked, incredulously. "My, your house is SO BIG!" And then he spotted our second computer. "You have computers everywhere!"

I started to feel embarrassed about the abundance I was now noticing as I looked around the house and glimpsed it through his eyes. Two rooms full of comfortable couches to sit on. Two tables for people to eat at. Two bathrooms. Shelves and shelves of books. Electric lights to brighten every room. More clothes than we can fit in our closets. A pantry and freezer full of food. Abundance beyond his wildest imagination.

He told us a story of a time when he'd been visiting Botswana. He'd traveled to the local market and had been so surprised to see the availability of meat that he'd bought 7 pounds of it, quite certain that he'd lucked out and visited the market on a rare day when meat was readily available. When he'd arrived back at the house of his host, proud of his wealth of meat, his host had laughed at him and said "but there's ALWAYS meat at the market - we could just buy more tomorrow!" Living in Zimbabwe, where the economy is deteriorating on almost a daily basis, he'd grown accustomed to the scarcity of precious food like meat and oil.

After lunch today, I was glad that Pugeni was out of the kitchen when I loaded the dishwasher. Suddenly I felt embarrassed by the ease of my lifestyle, where water flows freely into a machine that does my dishes for me.

Pugeni is sleeping now, in my "luxurious" basement. Ironically, he almost didn't stay with us, because I usually don't think we have enough room for overnight guests (after all - they have to sleep in the family room because we don't have a spare bedroom). How could I ever think that, with all of this space? Why do I still always want more? Why have I never noticed just how much food is sitting on our pantry shelves? Why do I worry about my ratty furniture and stained carpets?

I hope I remember the look on Pugeni's face the next time I wish my house were just a little bit bigger.

Journeys of the mind

Sitting behind me on the bus this morning was a man who was having an interesting conversation. At first I thought he was on a cell phone, but I soon realized there was no cell phone, nor was there anyone sitting with him engaged in the other side of the conversation. No, his only travel companion was in his own mind.

The conversation went something like this:

Billions of people do it. Every day. New born babies do it….
I saw a photograph of Jesus Christ once. It was like those pictures where a million tiny pictures make up one bigger picture…
You have to understand, son - you usually get so upset…
It’s KK. You know – KK – with Tom and Joe on 92 CITI FM…
I’m Metis. Aboriginal. But white too. White people don’t like me and Aboriginal people don’t like me either….
People say to me “smoking will kill you”, but none of us is going to live forever, are we? Maybe we are. Maybe we are….
I know whom I have believed…
I’m not German, but I’m Dutch…

It was an interesting bus ride. I wonder what journey his mind was taking him on. I also wonder whether, if those of us who feel like we have a good handle on our mental capacity were to speak every one of our random thoughts, it might sound a little similar.

The wisdom of a child

Above the cacophony of the birthday party going on downstairs (Nikki turned 12 last week), I heard an odd noise that sounded something like “home…home…home…” coming from one of the bedrooms. I tip-toed down the hall to investigate.

There was Maddie, perched on her bed, her back toward the door, sitting in a lotus position with her outstretched hands pointed sky-ward. “Om…Om…Om…” she repeated, like a miniature yogi in deep meditation mode.

I stood and watched her for awhile, enthralled with yet another way that this five-year-old surprises and amazes me. Why was she here when all the excitement was downstairs?

Despite my efforts to stay silent, she spotted me. I thought she might be embarrassed, but she smiled a welcoming smile.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Meditating.”

“Why are you meditating?”

“Well, I just thought I needed time to myself so I wouldn’t get too worked up.”

“That’s a really good idea. Did someone teach you how to do that?” I knew she’d never seen anyone in our house model a meditation pose like that. Perhaps her teacher or a daycare worker had showed her.

“Nope. I just taught myself,” she said, matter-of-factly, as though it were commonplace for a five-year-old to disappear to her room for a time of meditation.

A few days later, I heard the “Oms” coming from her room again, and this time I didn’t interrupt. Another time, she said to me “Mom, let’s go meditate together.” So we did.

For twelve years I’ve been a mom. You’d think by now I’d know that these little people entrusted to my care teach me way more than I can hope to teach them.

Happy Birthday, Buddy!

You're still my one and only!

And you're still a little bit crazy!
P.S. Thanks for cleaning the bathroom on your birthday. :-)

Just call me Alexander

Remember the story of Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day? Well, that's me today. I don't know whether to cry or beat my fist against a wall. Neither would do any good, but at least I'd have an outlet. Or a hole in the wall.

It's a long and sordid tale, and I can't really go into any specific details, but it has something to do with dealing with foreign consulates, trying to get the necessary permits and visas for our trip, a passport that was supposed to be back in Edmonton by Friday but wasn't released by the consulate, a frantic few days in which we tried to track down said passport and have it couriered there in time for a flight to Hawaii today, momentary relief when the passport was found and in the hands of a courier, followed by another frantic day while the courier company couldn't track down the package that was supposedly in Edmonton but couldn't be found (slipped off a conveyer belt), in the end resulting in a missed flight to Hawaii, an unhappy couple of people, and me feeling like I'm the one to blame even though there was so, SO much of this that was completely out of my control.

And after all this, an overwhelming sense of dread that we won't actually be able to manage to pull off this trip to Southeast Asia because there are still so many hurdles to pass through. Navigating foreign bureaucracy can sometimes feel a little like tip-toeing through a minefield. I'm not sure what's going to blow up in my face the next step I take.

Alexander's got nothing on me. Or the guy who's supposed to be basking in the sun in Hawaii tonight but is still in cold Canada.

(In the end, the passport was found and he'll get there a day late.)

Just give me eight steps

Today I want eight steps. Eight easy steps to a happier healthier you. Or eight steps to living the life you've always wanted. Or eight simple steps to losing 40 pounds without even trying. Or eight steps to whipping your house into shape and keeping it that way. Or eight mind-blowingly easy steps to getting that book published you've always dreamed of. Or eight simple things you can do to turn your children into the most obedient, most cooperative children on the planet.

Today I don't want to do the hard work - I just want someone to tell me the eight easy steps or "the secret" so that I don't have to slog through all the crap along the way. Today I want to breeze through life in a straight line instead of taking one step forward and two steps back.

Why is life never quite as linear as those eight simple steps seem to suggest?

It all depends how you look at it

When I look into Maddie's room, I see alot of boxes. She looks in and doesn't see a single one.

Instead, she sees an airplane, a house for Joe Banana, a swimming pool, and a guest house for all of Joe's friends. It's a magical room for a magical little girl, where cardboard transforms into whatever she wants it to be.

What do you see, boxes or possibility?

Basking in the glow

Oh how I love a good singer-songwriter – someone who paints magic with words and a guitar. Check out some of these lines and see if you don’t agree with me that Martyn Joseph is one of those…

Exhibit #1
“It’s the weight of the world
that gouges the land,
shrivels the sand,
praises the bland
And it’s the weight of the world
that frenzies our fears
so when hope disappears
we start sharpening spears”

Exhibit #2
“We ask virtue to defend us
but she’s got a new career,
selling pills to make us grateful
and time-shares for our soul.”

Exhibit #3
“Faith – The other side of knowing
and a thousand questions how”

Exhibit #4
“And all I really know is that kindness is better
than any sort of terror any kind of spite.”

Exhibit #5
“But that seems like the place we could start now
Ripping prayers through the open sky”

And that’s only the words! The music adds a whole other layer to that magic painting.

That’s just from his latest album. I’ve written about some of his older stuff before. He’s been my companion for many a melancholy day. Like the day that the abandoned tanks in Ethiopia made me cry. And the day after I found out my unborn nephew has a tumour on his back.

Everybody needs a good cd or two that’s just the thing you reach for when you’re torn between melancholy and hope.