December Greetings

The portion of the days that is filled with light is getting larger. I take comfort in this.

After a few years' hiatus, this year I decided to write a letter of December greetings to send to friends. Here it is for you in nearly unabridged form complete with a few extras. I greet you today, this minute as you visit here, with kindness. While greeting you, the soft light of a candle gently glows from my desktop just to my right and a pine cone someone painted with gold and sparkles unobtrusively shimmers.

The letter:

December greetings,

I am curious: do you enjoy receiving "Christmas letters" folded into the cards that arrive to you, or not? For me, I do enjoy hearing from people and these notes -- thanks -- and I also wonder if sometimes the template Christmas letter can feel a bit, well, I don't know, like something is missing...

With that, I send one of my own.

Oh the glory that the Lord has made and the complications you could do without

I heard a song on the radio recently that quickly drew me in. It was likely these brief lyrics--and the feel of the song--that led me to sit down beside the speakers to listen, to sit on the little wooden rocking chair my grandfather made, to take a gamble that the potato water boiling vigorously on the stove would not rush over the lip of the pot and spill.

The song was Casimir Pulaski Day by Sufjan Stevens. While listening, I experienced a panoply of images and senses combining memory, imagination, recognition: the nice feeling that can come form a neck being kissed; the dense, weighted, and overwhelming energy of sadness that can come when someone dies; images of beauty and wonder and kindness and love and pain and loss. Oh the glory and the complications.

I wonder what kind of year it has been for you? What glory? What complications? Maybe you felt glory in the complications. Maybe not.

I have experienced my own version of "the full catastrophe" as Jon Kabat-Zinn has put it with what has felt like more experiences on the draining side than on the renewing. One example: I've had the most incredible experience with a tenant and her father that eventually resulted in her eviction -- they excelled at not telling the truth and at not paying their rent and showing incredible disregard and disrespect. The situation evolved into a long, exasperating saga. It could be said it gave me an opportunity to dig deep and stand up for and assert myself. It could also be said it felt, at times, like it could do me in and was deeply disheartening with respect to the lack of virtues being displayed by the pair. Was there glory in this complication? Right now, I am worn out, angry, likely hurt.

Sometimes, also, I am dancing.

Over the year, I have put out the world more publicly some of my desires. I have taken risks as I try to move toward a balance of work that works well for me on many fronts. I have made some progress. I am not there yet. I continue on the path of trying to take care of my health and the whole of all that that means. I have had some new health complications. I continue to grow and unfold and develop. I have made some "art that works" rather than much in the way of works of art. I have wept deeply, laughed hard at times, and persevered. I have felt moved and touched by many people and many things. I have watched the sun dip below the horizon with the most extraordinary fanfare including lavish displays of colour; the moon fantastically large and orange standing, peering, rising, and glowing; tree roots tangled and woven by years and stories, conversing with the wind and traveling toward deep pools.

I think of a story I heard recently about a young neighbour of mine who is about 5 years old. A few years' ago, I had the opportunity to greet him each day along my walk to work. That autumn, he greeted me in return each day with the gift of a fallen leaf. He would see me coming and start looking for the leaf he would give me that day. I loved those gifts, his enthusiasm, and his smiles. As the more recent story goes: this year or last, he decided to dress up as the wind for Hallowe'en. He would go to people's homes and introduce himself, "I am the wind...whoosh". He would make a whooshing kind of sound. This is a boy after my own heart.

If you are feeling very sad when this note arrives and the holidays descend whether wanted or not, then what? This is a question I think about a lot. If you are feeling very burdened or angry or not, then what? If you are feeling worried or scared? If you are feeling any of these and it was autumn and we lived nearby, I would offer you a freshly fallen leaf, bright and golden. Although it is not autumn and you do not live nearby, I offer one to you just the same. I offer it not because I believe it can remove the weighted weighted weighted complications -- if only -- if only it could -- but because I want you to have it. And I am thinking of you. And I want to reach out across the chasm and say, hello. Also, there is something about a golden or fiery leaf just as there is something about a stone, a shell, a handful of sand or one grain, a maple key or other seed, a landscape of freshly fallen white snow... There is just something about all of htat that makes me want to say, "Here, something for you, to breathe with, to hold...".

And if you are feeling fine, excited, warm, delighted, I offer you also this leaf, and I also say, hello.

I look up

into the faces of stars,

into their deep silence.

--Mary Oliver

I look up into the faces of the stars and I breathe in and out and I offer my hope and my wish and my earnest prayer that you may be safe, that you may be healthy, that you may be happy, that you may be at ease. I offer the prayer that you may have access to the comfort and support of others, to shelter and wonderful food, and to kindness--from others, yes, and also from your own most precious self.

Something opens our wings. Something, and many things.

_______________

* "Something opens our wings" is a line from a poem by Rumi. The lines by Mary Oliver are from her poem (and book) The Leaf and The Cloud. The Sufjan Stevens song is from his album, Illinoise.

"Casimir Pulaski Day" by Sufjan Stevens

Here is a video for the song, Casimir Pulaski Day, by Sufjan Stevens. I find watching the video makes me feel a bit dizzy so I prefer to simply close my eyes or look away and listen. I wanted to provide this, however, to give those who haven't heard the song, an easy and free way to hear it. Having said this, you could purchase the song from itunes for 99 cents and support Sufjan, or you could purchase the whole album, Illinoise, wherever you like. It's an interesting album that I've enjoyed.

As seen on an urban street in Ontario...

Here we have a little bit of colour as we enter into a season of less colour in the visual landscape. We also have what seems to me to represent an intriguing story. Any ideas?

Upcoming Lecture in Kingston (free): Self-Compassion and Reactions to Negative Life Events

The Department of Psychology at Queen's University in Kingston is hosting a presentation on Friday, November 14th at 2:30 p.m. that is free to attend and looks quite interesting. It is by Mark R. Leary from the Department of Psychology and Neuroscience, Duke University. Here is the description from the website:

"Ironically, people often treat others who experience negative events more kindly and compassionately than they treat themselves. Self-compassion refers to the degree to which people respond to negative events in their lives (such as failure, rejection, or loss) with self-directed understanding, kindness, and compassion. This presentation describes a program of research that examined the buffering effects of trait self-compassion on reactions to negative events, as well as the effects of experimentally-induced state self-compassion. These studies show not only that self-compassion is associated with beneficial coping strategies but also that self-compassion consistently relates to positive outcomes more strongly than self-esteem."  

Locations: Biosciences Complex, Room 1102, Queen's University

I recommend you check the department's website for up-to-date information. Click here for the link. Perhaps I will see you there?

Not For The Faint of Heart

"It's not for the faint of heart, is it?"is the exact line someone experienced with such matters said to me recently with respect to being a landlord in the province of Ontario. My response? A compact: "No, it isn't." In that brief exchange and dealing with the near tail-end of the latest challenging situation as a small-scale landlord, did I leap across some chasm into the "people who are not faint of hearts" group? Well, probably not. But the line certainly did stay with me and got me thinking.

I believe that sometimes in life, fierceness is required: a fierceness that is not without reins but is grounded in some deep, wise, and powerful energy that rises up to defend, protect and guide how this should be done. I have not read much about the spirit of the warrior, though the idea and image of a powerful, peaceful warrior has been presented to me many times. I imagine this grounded fierceness as like the energy of a wise warrior, not oriented toward unwarranted menace but toward the preservation of integrity. Perhaps sometimes (if not always), drawing on this fierceness becomes an antidote to "faint of heart". One dons courage and proceeds accordingly.

Maya Angelou's poem, Still I Rise, keeps running through my mind as I type about this topic this morning. I suspect it is because there is a tremendous strength in the words, a grounded fierceness, or warrior kind of energy to be sure. A few excerpts:

You may write me down in history

with your bitter, twisted lies,

You may trod me in the very dirt

but still, like dust, I'll rise.

...

I rise

I rise

I rise.

If you haven't read it, or would like to read it again, a google search should lead you to the poem in full.

There is also no doubt the poem speaks of courage. Likely, courage and grounded fierceness go hand in hand. As I've previously mentioned, a question Peter Block's poses in his book, The Answer to How is Yes, is "what courage is required of me right now?" (p. 21). You could ask, what courage does this situation or feeling require of me? What wisdom? What grounded fierceness? Sometimes, it might be to speak up, to stand up, to stay the course, and sometimes it might be to change routes. It might be to work less, or less at certain things, to do more of something else, to breathe, to stay quiet, to be very gentle with yourself, or to be more still. What is your sense of this for your own life right now--a situation or feeling you may be experiencing?

If there is a poem or book you really like that comes to mind as you read this post, please share it by providing a comment to this post. (You can, of course, comment on other things as well!)

A New Address & A New Opportunity

Sustenance for the journey is a blog I began on wordpress in November, 2007 (www.sustenanceforthejourney.wordpress.com). During its first year of life, the most popular post by far was Beauty and Grief, which you may find by clicking here. I decided to migrate the blog, including the contents of the previous' months posts, to blogger, a move I made this weekend, so that I could gain some options I didn't have on wordpress and wanted. For those who have also used wordpress, you will know this came at the expense of losing some of wordpress's great features including the program that let me know which posts were the most popular!

As always, please feel free to share your reflections by offering comments to posts on the site.To help prevent spam, all comments must be approved by me before they will appear; however, rest assured I will approve all comments so long as they are positive or constructive in nature.

On the Chalkboard September 1, 2008

When Pablo Casals, the cellist, was ninety-one years old, he was approached by a student who asked, “Master, why do you continue to practice?” Casals replied, “Because I am making progress.”

–Norman Doidge, The Brain that Changes Itself, p. 257

(A fascinating, easy to read book concerning neuroplasticity.)

Staying In Your Own Lane

Over the week and perhaps especially today, I have observed myself drawing on scenes and interviews I’ve taken in of the Olympics and using them as grist for the reflective and metaphoric mill. The ideas of “focusing on your own game,” “running your own race,” and “staying in your own lane” were popular ones from my reflections over the past 24 hours and seemed to weave themselves into conversations I’ve had with others. These ideas come in part from an interview I listened to yesterday where strategies for running the kind of track races in which each person is assigned to and must stay in their own lane on the track were discussed. The interviewee explained how the athletes have practiced these races so many times, how they “know their times” (that is, how fast they can run), and that their task now, at these types of events, is not to worry about what other competitors are doing but to focus instead on their own lane, running their own race, aiming to perform up to or compete with their own personal bests.

This leads me to mention a book I’ve been reading this summer, The Answer to How is Yes, by Peter Block (2002). In it, he asks one to consider first the question “what matters?” rather than to bypass it and immediately jump to the question how–how do I do this or that, achieve this or that, solve x or y or get from point z to n? It is not a book against problem-solving and action but it is a book that encourages one to consider questions such as: is this the right problem to be trying to solve? Is this meaningful or important (and to me)? What is meaningful and important? What matters? What do I value?

Coming back to the race strategy, we might ask: am I running my own race or someone else’s? What do I want my race to be? What is my lane about? We might also remember the journey we are taking in our lane is ours. It is real and it matters.

At one point, Peter Block mentions the questions: “What is the transformation in me that is required?” and “What courage is required of me right now?” (p. 21). Also, “what measurement would have meaning to me?” (p. 23). I have heard some athletes speak of having faced significant challenges over the past four years–whether because of significant personal injury (such as broken bones) or interpersonal tragedy or loss. For some, getting to the Olympics was measurement enough, a meaningful accomplishment; aiming for a medal, though desirable, was not highly meaningful or the only goal or source of satisfaction. What measurement would have meaning for me? is a question I really like–not because I am gung-ho about measurement and certainly not about valuing people based on particular scores or number oriented results but because it invites each of us to consider, again, what is meaningful to me, in the context of everything else.

Sadly, I know that what can feel meaningful to a person can also lead them into all sorts of problems and traps. I am thinking of students I have worked with who have believed that a mark of 90 or more and no less is what has meaning to them. The trap here is often though that their belief, fear, and sometimes experience, based on how they have been treated by others, is that without the achievement of that marker, they are not of worth or value. The question of what measurement has meaning to me gets us closer to considering our own lane, assessing our values and directions and being guided more by that than swept along by what other people say or are doing in their lanes but it can still, of course, have pitfalls for us depending on our experiences thus far and vulnerabilities.

For those of you who have been watching–or participating–in the summer Olympics, I wonder what reflections you have had? What metaphors and ideas may have been presenting themselves to you?

Ebb and ____

Here we have a quick photo from today–strategically angled not for artistic merit but to avoid getting the dead squirrel into the shot–although coming to the end of writing the post and reading back through, I am wondering now if maybe I should have aimed to leave it in, to embrace that, too.

I share the photo here with thoughts in mind about cycle, rhythm, season, change, ebb, flow, swell, recede, wax, wane. Of the latter, it’s as if you cannot say one without the other: ebb pulls out from the tongue flow, wax attracts to pen wane. Try conjuring up rise without fall landing right behind on the runway; say up and in comes down. Scroll back a few posts and you will find a photo of daffodils in my yard that had just begun to bloom. Today the daffodils have long-faded from view and astillbe and sweet william, among others, are at center stage. This moment-by-moment changing, rising, falling, bursting, sag and wilt is always happening, always present, always everywhere. So I think it is with our journey: the ebbs and flows, rises and falls. It is all a part of the way.

I learned with much sadness earlier this week that Oliver Schroer died July 3rd, 2008.

There is life then death and also there is death then life.

I am thinking of the falling times people go through, the quiet times, the wilting times–and the emergence that so often comes after that: times of going inward, then going outward–the waxing and waning that David Whyte so powerfully talks about. In his talk, The Poetry of Self-Compassion (a cd I would highly recommend), he invites the listener to embrace it all: both the waxing and the waning, the highs and the lows, our strengths and all our seeming imperfections–and he suggests, essentially, that there is something very powerful in doing that. It seems to me that to walk with it all is the lifeblood of authenticity: to walk with acceptance, honesty, and tenacity leaning into pain, loss, confusion and into the richness of who you are, the wonder that is around you, and the deeply personal and positive contributions you can make.

I am holding in this moment Oliver’s death, the reality and inevitability of death, the plant in my yard I’ve longed named, Droopy, who is just beginning to bloom, and the laughter of a child.

On the Chalkboard June 17, 2008

Everyone you meet comes with a story… You might never know when you walk into a room whether someone has had an invasive procedure, bad news or good news. You must just arrive open–to the situation and the individual before you. That is presence. That stance allows [a person] to be heard.

–Suzanne Darley

from: The Expressive Art Activity Book: A Resource for Professionals, p. 44, by S. Darley and W. Heath, (c) 2008.

A Mini Holiday

Yesterday, I had the pleasure of spending time in a toy store. I was on a mission to find an adult-sized hula hoop and had been told this was the place to go. Mission accomplished. I was also looking to find a badminton racquet or two and birdies to supplement my collection. This took me wandering throughout the store. I loved the outdoor games and toys section. This made me miss working at an outdoor centre and camps. There are so many fun things to do outside and toys to play with! I love to play–for me the simple things are just fine. Playing catch in any number of ways, tossing a flying disc around, badminton without a net, horseshoes… Last night, friends were over for a potluck. Sitting in the backyard over good food and conversation, playing catch, badminton (with some raquets that ended up not working too well) was wonderful. The trip to the toy store and subsequent play felt like a mini-vacation–something I haven’t had enough of for quite some time and also crave. On the topic of nourishment and sustenance, it seems to me we need this so much. I look forward to the next gathering for outdoor visiting and play. For those of you in Kingston wanting to practice your hula hooping finesse or play catch with one of those velcro mitts, stop by or drop me a line!

Olive Oil, Fizzy Pop

While purchasing groceries yesterday, there was an older gentleman standing in line behind me. He had grey hair, a grey moustache that curved up at the ends and a combination of grocery cart items that intrigued me. His purchase consisted of approximately half a dozen 2 litre bottles of pop (something like sprite with lemon flavour) and approximately half a dozen 750 mL to 1 L bottles of extra-virgin olive oil. Nothing more, nothing less. I couldn’t help but wonder: what was the story that went along with that? Your thoughts?

Welcome June!

Today is the first day of June. We are now well into spring and will arrive in summer before the month is through. I have found myself drawn outside repeatedly over the past month, wanting to be outside sitting sipping tea in the sun, eating meals outside, playing, hanging out laundry, or working in the garden. Some days have been so beautiful, they have felt intoxicating–in the delightful, non-alcoholic sense of the word. I enjoy and love aspects of all the seasons: fall, winter, spring, summer; and I am currently really enjoying spring: the resurgence of colour into the visual landscape, the wonderful sights and smells of plants, bicycling again, and wearing skirts (at least, on occasion, … we’ve still had a lot of chilly days). When I look at the current state of my garden or the state it was in two weeks ago, with the tulips in full bloom, the forget-me-nots’ dazzling iridescence, I have reminded myself to enjoy it exactly as it is right now and to try to settle into that, instead of residing more in the realm of anticipation of the next interesting thing to come. There is nothing wrong with the latter, that excited and interested antcipation; however, I am also acutely aware that the garden season can feel very short, that before I know it, I’ll be observing the last blooms of the year, and eating local farmers’ fall harvests, so I would like to also make sure I that savour each morsel of the experience, and to aim to experience the full experience of the garden and the season as it is today, as it is in the moment I find myself in.

Five Breaths

My invitation to you today is this:

Pause.
In this moment, where you are, as you are.
Notice the sound and feel of your own breath breathing.
Tune in.

What sounds do you hear right now?

What colours do you see around you? What shapes? What textures?

Notice the feel of air on your skin.

Take 5 breaths here while still, while listening, while tuning in…

Sitting in Spaces

For those of you who follow the blog semi-regularly, you may have noticed my lack of activity on the site: no chalkboard quotes or writing for a few weeks. I was away for a week taking an expressive arts course, and since, have been sitting in all the silence, sounds, and spaces that have followed.

Yesterday, I began re-reading one of David Whyte’s books. Today, I’ll share the following excerpt:

In my experience, the more true we are to our own creative gifts the less there is any outer reassurance or help at the beginning. The more we are on the path, the deeper the silence in the first stages of the process. Following our path is in effect a kind of going off the path, through open country. There is a certain early stage when we are left to camp out in the wilderness, alone, with few supporting voices. Out there in the silence we must build a hearth, gather the twigs, and strike the flint for the fire ourselves.

This can be a frightening time.

–David Whyte, The Heart Aroused, p. 87

The Blanket Song

This week, I had the pleasure of listening to a recently posted concert of Canadian singer-song writer, Karla Anderson, which you can find on the CBC Concerts-on-Demand website by clicking here. While listening to the beautiful song, “What else can I do?” I thought, with caring, of my friend who is sick and my friends who are both excited and anxious in the face of current changes. What else can I do but bring a blanket for you…lend my shoulder to you…share the silence? Follow up listening with the song, “Gentle Kindness,” and, if you respond like I did, you’ll find yourself taking a deep, satisfying breath, maybe even feel a tear.

Thanks, Karla, for sharing your gifts.

Bloom

Sometime between when I went to bed last night and when I awoke this morning, these daffodil blooms opened in my yard. I wondered: did they open during the cool and dark of night, or this morning, when the first sliver of sunlight reached out in to the day?

Be Like My Cat...Or Not: Picking and Choosing

A friend listed for me what was in her lexicon of memories of my cat based on stories I have told her over the past year that she has been collecting. It was not the most flattering list. Near the top: Sadie trying to squirm her way up into the housing of the left front tire of my car with me trying to accomplish the opposite, hands firmly attached to her torso, pulling and coaxing…pleading. Thankfully, I was more successful than she. (This did not really seem to be a case of warm, collaborative, compromise.) Then there is the story of Sadie staying in virtually the same position under several layers of blankets on a bed for a period of likely about 19 hours one day while we were visiting a cabin. I didn’t think she had died but did check on her tentatively more than once with this possibility in mind. Thankfully, au contraire, she was likely there for such a long time because she was warm, comfortable, and also a bit scared: her new-found burrow offered comfort and a sense of security. The rationale: if I stay here, I will be safe, I will be okay, nothing bad (or worse) will happen. Alternatively: I won’t have to deal with what’s out there and what’s out here feels too difficult to face. I would check on her and she would stare back, sigh, stretch, continue to dwell in her burrow.

This morning, she was at the side door enjoying a favourite warmer weather pastime of hers: with her nose scrunched right up to the screen of the open window, she sniffed the fresh spring air, attending to every little movement and sound, eager for what this sensory input in this moment and the next would be bring. Attending to each moment with such interest, noticing this and this, can hold her attention for hours–or, well, at least, quite a long time until she is ready for possibly her most favourite pastime of all regardless of season: napping–and of particular enjoyment, napping in a patch of sunshine streaming in through a window. Wherever the sunshine lands makes for Sadie the perfect place for a spontaneous bed. If logistically, only one ear can get into the sun, that’s okay; that will also do. I imagine she lies there in the spirit of savouring: how good the quarter-size patch of sun feels landing on her ear. She soaks that good feeling up.

As I watched Sadie eagerly sniffing the air, listening, watching, tail poised in wagging position (yes, cats wag their tails, too), I thought we could learn a lot from her, take a page from her book where values she lives by such as mindfulness, savouring, focus, and relaxation can be found. Then I remembered the tire climbing story and I thought, well, we can also pick and choose. It is important to do that anyway, to reflect and to pick and choose what feels best for us right now, what works for us, what makes sense or is meaningful. In working as helpers, I believe it is important that we support others in their own picking and choosing, too, rather than dictating. It’s okay to offer ideas but not to command.

It seems to me picking and choosing involves knowing ourselves, being in tune with who we are. We consider: What do I like? What do I need? What do I value? What is important to me? Also, what helps? It is possible that there are lessons for all from my long-haired white cat, aging, and with sagging belly. Everyone needs love, for example; everyone needs and deserves that. (I might add here that by extension, my sense is that we need to find ways to give love to others and to ourselves as fully as we can in the ways we can at any given time, acknowledging this may mean sometimes more, sometimes less depending on circumstances, present-moment abilities, limitations, and other needs. By doing this, we do our part to help meet this need for love that each of us has.) There also comes into play, the picking and choosing. What specific thing works for one person or is imbued with meaning is not necessarily the same as that for another. Nor are likes the same, among a multitude of options of likes which cause no harm. Sadie’s interest in sniffing catnip, batting a toy mouse (or a live one for that matter), and chewing on grass is not my own–though perhaps in these, we share values for play, pleasant sensory experiences, nourishing food.

If I were to offer you an invitation today, perhaps it would be this: to connect with that realm of things you pick and choose–those things you deeply value–and take stock. If something you value hasn’t gotten attention for a while, what’s one thing you could to today or this week to give it some energy and attention–even if only in a very small, five-minute, grain of sand kind of way? I am thinking here of the post, Make Small Resoulutions (And Dream Big), of the value of small, and how the small things can really add up.

On the Chalkboard April 13, 2008

In conviction let me be kind;
In anger let me…burn bright;
In surrender let me be rekindled by pure love.

–Judy Collins
from a preface page in her book, The Seven T’s: Finding Hope and Healing in the Wake of Tragedy, (c) 2007.

Why Black Umbrellas?

This is a question I ponder from time to time. How has it come to be that on dark, grey, or otherwise overcast, rainy days, so many people are in the habit of pulling out their black umbrellas? Why not red, or purple, or yellow, turquoise, sunny orange, or that gorgeous spring green? I wonder, what might be the impact of adding more drab to all the drab that already exists on such grey days? Of course, for those who do give consideration to this, perhaps sometimes a black umbrella just feels right, maybe reflects some heavy weather in a person’s heart. If this were so, and people consciously chose a black umbrella for occasions limited to when their cells were laden with sadness or suffering, then perhaps, it could be a kind of signal to others–to send some extra comfort or love or warmth their way, for others to offer an encouraging word. For times when suffering or sadness is dominant but we are trying to hold hope, too, maybe a black umbrella with a small spot of colour or colours would be fitting, with the colour acting as a reminder or declaration in faith that there is also colour or the possibility of that–whether we can feel it or believe it that day or not.

Yesterday, was one of those rainy, grey days outside off and on. At one point, I noticed a group of about four people walking together, a unit of people. What I noticed first was their umbrellas. There were red, yellow, blue, and purple umbrellas (or maybe it was green?) huddled happily together as in a bouquet and bopping along. No black. I wondered if this was intentional among them, if they have considered this umbrella quandary, too, and decided to take rectifying action.

A few weeks’ ago, I observed a phenomenon that had a similar effect and was undoubtedly completely intentional. It pertained to a group of joggers running along a city side road one grey Saturday morning. Each one wore a different colour of jacket; all were vibrant in hue. After allowing some traffic to pass, they moved into formation, lining up side by side across the width of the road. There was, in sequence: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and purple–a complete rainbow. How wonderful, I thought. This buoyed up my spirits and made me smile. I am very curious to know the story behind the jackets and the group. If you know, do send the story along!

You Make A Difference

A colleague sent me the following link today. It is to a short movie well worth watching. I offer thanks to my colleague for thinking of me and sending this along, thanks to the creators of the film–and to each of you, I offer a blue ribbon.

http://www.BlueRibbonMovie.com

Turning Points

A initial title idea for this week’s post, “The Snow Is Melting!” came to me earlier in the week as a lot of snow transformed and receded from view (and my sump pump worked over time in response). This morning, though, after rereading the quote now on the chalkboard, the idea of “turning points” settled in, such that that is what the title (and theme) of this week’s post will be. I suppose there can be a relationship between these two, with the melting snow feeling as a kind of turning point.

Of course, depending on where you live, you may not have snow, or the snow you have may not be going away. I heard briefly on the radio this morning that northern Ontario is forecast to get up to 25 centimeters of snow and that a winter storm warning is in effect for the region. I wondered how I might feel today if I was facing a few hours of snow shoeveling ahead of me? Hopefully, I’d take it in stride but I can see that as the snow is melting so is my winter activities mindset. I wonder if this will be the last post for a while in which I mention snow? Yesterday, I did a small amount of work in the garden (cutting back old stalks). It wouldn’t surprise me if these sorts of things become a “regular guest” on the blog for a while.

In my work, I have the opportunity to witness over and over again turning points in people’s lives. I find this deeply moving, something very special and almost beyond words in its impact. I see these turning points in my own life, too, and in friends and others around me when given the opportunity and having the awareness to see. When I speak of turning points this morning, I am thinking of the full range from those that are very subtle to those quite clear and overt, from those that may seem more temporary to those that may seem more permanent (although I might add here I am reluctant to describe things that way). I am thinking also of the things that can contribute to a turning point. These can be virtually anything really: something a person notices on the street, a line they read in a book, a health issue, a song, something a friend or stranger says, the way a tree bends and how it speaks to them, a trip, a physical challenge or activity, a loss… on and on the possibilities go. Sometimes, the things themselves are subtle. We can’t quite put our finger on what they were. There was just something…

When I first read the line a month or two ago that Bill Schefell wrote in Loving Kindness Meditation (2003, p. 10), of how sometimes just to remember loving kindness can support a turning point within us, that is exactly what happened. It connected me again to something very calm and loving and that deep desire to love. This would be an example of a turning point on a small scale, one of the thousands of these inner shifts that can occur in a day, a week, a lifetime. In a small scale but no less poignant way, it offered me renewal, and, in a sense, nourishment for my conviction.

I would love to hear about things that have contributed to a turning point within you. I envision a collection of stories gathered here to inspire and give goosebumps–potential “turning point material” to another as needed. Please feel free to provide a story, a quote, a song, and thus build this collection, by adding a comment to this post.

May you have turning points of hope and renewal this week, exclusively or amidst anything else you may be facing or may come your way.

On the Chalkboard April 5, 2008

“Training in loving-kindness helps us remember it when we most need it. And sometimes, just to remember it is enough to create a turning point within us.”

–Bill Scheffel, Loving Kindness Meditation, (c) 2003, p10.

El Camino

For those of you who have not yet heard of the musician or the album, I would like to use today’s post to introduce you to Camino by Oliver Schroer, an album which I highly recommend. The cd comes out of a pilgrimage that Oliver, his wife, and some friends went on in 2004. As explained on his website, they walked 1000 km of an eleven hundred year old pilgrim trail through France and Spain known as the Camino de Santiago. During the walk, the music on this album–that primarily of Oliver playing his violin–was recorded. This is powerful music to be sure.

As I have confessed to a few friends, I have often fantasized of playing this album out into the neighbourhood one still summer or autumn night. (Recently, I thought New Year’s Eve would be another wonderful time to do this.) I have imagined the music arriving in the ears of backyard and balcony dwellers, in the kitchens and bedrooms and living rooms of people with their windows held ajar. I have imagined people might stop what they were doing then and just listen and that there would be something very special, very moving and touching for them in the experience (kind of like the man who played the penny whistle outside in my neighbourhood a month or so ago). I’ve also imagined doing this somehow when the power is out, because I find that power outages in the summer can be special times–it seems to draw people out of their rooms and walls and into the fresh air, into conversations over the soft glow of flickering candles and the hush and stillness that takes up space in the absence of the usual electrical whirring and hums. Of course, I realize that some people would likely not appreciate my gesture and it could significantly annoy some people. Consequently, I expect I would hold back. Still, I like to imagine the potential beauty of it, if for no other reason than it pleases me and is filled with magic and love.

The liner notes to the album are a wonderful read. I want to share with you a brief excerpt from the English version of the notes, which are also available on Oliver’s website. Peter Coffman, one of Oliver’s friends who went on the pilgrimage and who took several photographs along the way, wrote of El Camino the following:

El Camino. The Road. The Way. It is a metaphor for a spiritual voyage, an inward journey symbolized by an outward one.

But it is also a very real, very physical path. It is a muddy trail through a forest. It is a hot, dusty line slicing through a parched landscape. It is a country road hugging the edge of a river gorge. It is a cobblestone lane through a medieval village. It is the hard, concrete shoulder of a bleak highway. It is a row of stones crossing a stream. It is continuous, unbroken, yet changing in shape, colour, texture, mood. The one constant is the sound of footsteps — the heartbeat of the pilgrimage.

I love that description and the last two lines. Thank you Peter Coffman for writing that.

I think a lot about the journeys people take, make, and find themselves on and about the idea of journeys, individual and collective ones, the fullness of them, the twists and turns. I think about one’s inner life (and outer life), the ups and downs, the changing weather and landscapes, as well as about that idea of some constant or constants–some thing or things that are with us throughout, most surely our own breathing, one breath at a time, and our own feet stepping along whether literal or metaphorical. I think, among other things, of the moon as one of these constants for me, of the moon as one example. I have many images and memories of the moon’s presence as I have walked along.

I wonder tonight as I type alongside my cat and two flickering candles about what your journey might be like, what is happening right now, what has happened already, what hurts, what feels good, what is unfolding or yet to unfold. I reflect upon the journeys of people I know and people I don’t know. I feel quieted and moved and also a sense of connection. I tune in to the rhythm of my breath, and the image of the moon, and of the sound of footsteps walking. I wish to greet you today wherever you are and exactly where you are at in this moment. Namaste.

Today, on the second day of spring...

Today, on the second day of spring, I visited the tree from last week’s post and took a photograph. According to the forecast, the wind chill made it feel like about -7 degrees Celsius today. With my face in the wind, I’d say it felt colder. With my face out of the wind, the sun felt warm. I thought of the transformations happening and the transformations to come. I also met a lovely Newfoundlander dog named Parker.

Sun-filled, spring greetings to you.

On the Chalkboard March 17, 2008

While browsing the book of poetry, The Gift, the other evening, I came across the following:

I weave light into words so that
When your mind holds them

Your eyes will relinquish their sadness,
Turn bright, a little brighter, giving to us
The way a candles does
To the dark.

Hafiz, from the poem, I Rain

From A Severed Trunk

Today, I went for a walk at a nearby conservation area. I walked amid mid-March and mid-afternoon sun, tall trees, and atop a few feet of well packed and gently melting snow. For a little while, I sat on a bench overlooking a frozen but melting river. I observed a tall tree along the riverbank in front of me, how its trunk was severed after several years of growth, the top portion completely broken off, and how growing out from just below the broken place were two long arms, and growing out of those, straight up, were many new branches, like a bush of branches, one standing on top each of the arms. The bushes stretched with strength and innate interest toward the sky and bore hundreds of new leaf buds–indicators of the thousands of things happening inside, sight unseen to us, which will lead soon enough to an amazing burst of green. Maybe, seeing this then, if not before, we might smile, feel a little lightness, a little dance in our step, feel thanks swimming in our skin. The trunk was severed yet the leaves found a way to come.

Trying Something New

While lightly pondering what I might write about this week, more stories and reflections involving snow came to mind. Then I wondered, in the very short life of this blog, how many times exactly have I made references to snow? I don’t know the definitive count but it seems to me “a lot” would be an appropriate summary. Of course, there is good reason for this: snow has been front and center in the landscape this winter. As a dear friend pointed out to me this morning, “we’re practically buried in snow”. Yes.

In the last week, I’ve turned a year older from the perspective that I’ve had another birthday. In reality, over the past week I’ve turned a day older 7 times, a minute older 10 080 times. For my birthday, I decided to spend some time outside among trees and sun (and snow)–something I value and enjoy doing. I also decided to try something new, something I am essentially a beginner at–wanting to also recognize and honour the value in this, which I also value: that of taking (healthy) risks (when appropriate and ready) and stretching oneself a bit outside the bounds of one’s usual zone of comfort or day-to-day norms. It felt symbolically meaningful to me to do this on my birthday–a day marking my birth and emergence as Tracy into this world. So I decided to do something I haven’t done in many, many years. I decided to go cross-country skiing and had the good and gracious fortune to be accompanied by a patient friend who is more experienced on cross-country skis than myself.

There was a lot of slipping and sliding around on my part, some impressive wipe outs, many more near wipe outs, somewhat exhilarating moments, and fear, and a few particularly lovely moments when we stopped under a canopy of coniferous trees and listened to the quiet of the day at that particular moment in that particular spot.

I will share one particularly humorous (and terrifying and embarrassing) scene and one just plain warm and fuzzy one adapted from a letter I wrote after the experience and about the day.

Scene One.

Setting: a conservation area near Kingston that had groomed trails for skiing (though also some openly ploughed parts, that is, ploughed and without neat little tracks for your skis). The trails were generally slippery, particularly on the open, trackless parts.

The scene basically begins with me heading down a hilly section without my full awareness — or any awareness at all — that I had just started skiing downhill. An implication of this is that I had neither prepared myself psychologically or physically for what had just begun. I had not had the chance to even try to remember how to approach this decline and quickly picked up speed. I likely let out a kind of semi-scream–though this was more likely a fusion of something between a groan and a scream. I was doing my best to slow down or have some control over what was happening with limited success. I was sure this was going to end in a solo crash, which was bad enough. Then, though, I looked ahead and realized that there was a tall man standing aways in front of me on the other track and at the top of a bit of an incline. He was standing, stopped, and taking all of this in. I was headed straight for him and realized I may very well plough right into him. That’s when I called out, “I am so sorry. I do not know what I’m doing.”

Somehow I managed to stop not too far from him and without falling–a truly amazing feat given my previous falls and speed and total clumsiness on these long sliding wings. I was feeling a combination of things: embarrassment; a certain energy coursing through me, the kind the comes in these situations when you are feeling out of control, going way too fast, and anticipating a crash ahead; slightly giddy–the whole thing was also quite humorous. I had my friend behind me, observing from the top of the decline. She had seen it coming. I hadn’t. She said, she thought I did great. She also undoubtedly found the situation entertaining; at the same time her support of me remained fully in tact. I cannot say the same of the man.

It was evident that the man didn’t seem to think it was particularly funny or even slightly amusing. Understandable, really. I got myself back on my side of the tracks and proceeded to begin making my way up the hill toward where he was standing. He proceeded to glide down the hill toward me. On the way past, he said to me, “Bend your knees.” He said this in such a tone as to imply: “if you just bend your knees, all your problems will be solved. It will be completely smooth sailing, no sweat.” To give myself credit here, I believe there was at least some bend in my knees, but I did make it a goal to bend my knees more. Anyway, he sailed passed me, knees nicely bent to prove, or proving, his point.

Then, though, there was a woman standing behind him, also waiting, also observing. She was completely stone-faced and seemed to refuse to make eye contact with me–though I also had to hike my way past her. She gave off the very clear look and vibe of: “I am not amused.” I tried to make contact, offered a smile, but her stern expression and lack of eye contact with me remained. She stayed right where she was, staring straight ahead as I shuffled my way up this little incline past her. However wrong I might be, I felt like she was trying to put me in my place–no beginners, near wipe outs, apologies, cheers, or laughter allowed. To be fair, and as the friend who was with me pointed out, it would be unfair of me to assume the woman was giving that expression because she was annoyed with me. There could have been other things going on.

I had to don courage and dignity and a sense of humour, I suppose. Then, off I was like Bambi to the next near wipe out or slip; or brief, sweet, tiny moment where I actually seemed to glide; or anxiety-provoking hill.

Scene Two.

Setting: another slippery hill. Action: another very near wipe-out on the way down.

This time, though, while I was getting myself untangled and trying to figure out how I was possibly going to get myself going again and get to the bottom of the hill okay, a two-person line up collected behind me–people waiting to proceed down the hill. I politey said to the first person in line that I would move out of the way. He had been observing my best attempts at getting myself organized to go down the hill again (read: he had observed me keeping myself upright and gripping the bank with struggle and substantial effort as if my life depended on it). I was untangling and organizing myself in tiny increments of movement and adjustment. Unlike in Scene One, he kindly, gently, and politely responded, “No, that’s okay. Just keep on doing what you’re doing.” So I did and, eventually, when I got to the bottom–miraculously still standing–and the coast was clear, he easily and comfortably glided down and past. He was pleasant toward another passer-by and seemed to be quite relaxed about it all and in a good mood. He gave off the vibe of warmth, compassion, and patience. I offer him my thanks for that.

End of scene two.

In briefest closing: yes, I was sore after that outing and yes, I was glad I went. I would, however, like to learn how to manage going down hills, and how, in general, to ski with more mastery of skill and with grace. Perhaps then, one day, while making my way downhill, I might instead call out with calm, “I am soaring like a seagull, ordinary and beautiful. I will not wipe out. I will simply land.”

What are five new things you might like to try? Make a list.

On the Chalkboard March 1, 2008

I love the fact that when Clint directs a movie, he never says “Action.” He says calmly, quietly, “When you’re ready.”

–David Gilmour, The Film Club, p. 103, (c) 2007

Beauty and Grief

Last weekend, I went on some snow-shoeing walks. The landscape was beautiful, though at times also somewhat bleak. The weather in my heart was also variable and included some cloudy spots–what I will summarize as grief or grieving–as well as scattered sun–being touched by beauty and feeling fully enlivened by the fresh cool air touching my skin.

Early on my first walk, I saw a white rabbit–a hare. I wondered if I was witnessing a chameleon effect, that the rabbit had transformed to blend in with the landscape, or that the landscape had drawn out these particular shades in the rabbit. Either way, if this was the case, we know that such a transformation is meant to serve the rabbit well, to aid the rabbit in being safe, preserving and supporting life and health as it seeks out food, water, and living.

I was thinking earlier this week again of some presentations I heard a few years ago at a multicultural counselling conference related to grief at the Ontario Institute for Sutdies in Education, which is part of the University of Toronto. I came away from that conference very moved by some of the presentations, moved by stories of people’s courage and resilience to keep walking despite the grief: grief, which is sometimes a terrible, ripping pain that can feel unbearable, and is at some other times more like a dull but persistent aching that comes deep from one’s bones, deep from the wellspring of loss. At these times, grief encompasses a pulling down. I came away from the conference also with the idea of grief as a kind of companion, one that may accompany us throughout our lives, moving in closer at times, right up with us, and at other times fading from view, like a long-standing friend who calls periodically and comes for visits, though sometimes, if not often, with no advanced-warning or consideration of whether this is a convenient or a good time.

I expect some might react strongly to the idea of grief as a friend. I know I do though not to the exclusion of other reactions, including more conciliatory ones with the reaction depending somewhat on the day, on what is going on inside and out, context. I am reluctant to befriend grief, reluctant to want to befriend it. Yet, it is a companion whether I befriend it or not. It will come unannounced whether I invite it or not. It resides in me as surely as it resides anywhere else. So.

Kathy Hunt wrote:

It is possible that each of us has a functional grieving self, which is permanent, contains a cumulative store of pain and is ready when needed. It is located in a timeless dimension of the constantly changing, fluid self, a self that is not just intrapersonal but [is] also located in the interpersonal, physical, spiritual and cultural domain. (2005)

I believe she wrote this in her doctoral dissertation regarding grieving though I can’t promise this. It was presented by Dr. William West from the School of Education, University of Manchester at the conference in Toronto I mentioned attending in June, 2005.

I remember William West highlighting some concepts that he found particularly interesting: that the grieving self is ready when needed, timeless, permanent, functional, changing. “Do we really need grief?” I remember him saying something like that–though he was not necessarily disagreeing.

I remember another speaker, Ann Poonwassie, from CED Prairie Regional Centre for Focusing and Complex Trauma in Winnipeg, Manitoba. She spoke of the resilience she has witnessed in others as beyond comprehension. She worked with individuals and communities who have been ravished by tragedy and loss, terrible and traumatic events. Paraphrasing here, she commented on her observations of resilience, saying something like: “Do people heal? Sometimes yes, often no, but they find a way to have a good life beside the grief. They build their lives around what matters for them rather than what’s the matter. Yes, they cry. Yes, they never stop grieving, but they have a good life.”

Grief as a companion. Grief as moving in close, ready when needed. Grief as pain. Living with grief right here. Having a meaningful life, a good life beside the grief–note here, not only “besides” but also beside. Creating this, living it one moment and step at a time. Grief as right here beside walking with us, in us, as we walk. One can still have a good life.

And, sometimes you just have to rest, you have to surrender to the grief and cry it out and write it out and embrace what is. And you also may find you need to take it for walks, surround it by beauty, and by love, give it lots and lots of voice and listening and love. Maybe make it a cup of tea. “Here you go, grief. Sip gently. Let this soothe and warm you up.”

Ann Poonwassie also commented (again, in essence, from what I quickly jotted down on a piece of paper listening to her that day, being filled):

You don’t have to help. You just have to support what people need to do for themselves on their own terms–be what they need you to be. And you have to get the word out from what you learn from that.

After the weekend, when I was looking at the photo that has the tail-end of snowshoes in it, I observed how the imprint the snowshoes made looked like leaves. So I walked for some hours that weekend, etching out life, drawn to the walking, needing it, and leaving behind a long trail of leaves.

I believe grief needs beauty and it needs love.

When grief visits, may we find ways to walk with it, to seek out leaf making and beauty and love, and to leave behind a trail of leaves.

On the Chalkboard February 10, 2008

The beauty of a thing is its depth and meaning being revealed. To perceive that beauty, you need an eye for both appearances and for the invisible radiance of a thing. You also need the capacity to be affected.

~Thomas Moore , from Dark Nights of the Soul, (c) 2004, p. 223

Penny Whistle Love

One late afternoon last weekend, I went for a short, meandering walk through the neighbourhood before the sun quietly tucked below the horizon tugging along with it the light of day. Nearing a few blocks before my home, I heard the sweet sound of a wind instrument floating though the air. The source was a man standing on top of a very tall pile of snow playing a cheerful tune on what appeared to be a penny whistle or a recorder while children tobogganed down around him. The backdrop was a gray day and a rather unloved looking municipal lot. It has a large grass field (now covered with snow) and a gravel track that used to be used for horse-racing several years ago. Though somewhat unkempt in appearance, the space is frequented by many including myself to play, run, cross-country ski, take in the sunset, or walk with the dogs.

I wished that afternoon to give this person a thumb’s up, the musical magic maker, to thank him. The music was refreshing, nourishing, beautiful. Shyness took over and I regret that I didn’t say thanks. I wished that the music would go on for a long, long time and that this would be a more frequent site, that people would bring their instruments out into the streets more often and play, offering solace and beauty, celebrating creativity and life. I wished I had the courage to do this more myself.

I would like to say if you are one of the people in your neighbourhood who plays the penny whistle outside, or the guitar, some drums, or the enchanting french horn, thank you so much. Please keep playing. Your offering is a gift.

Snow Days

It has snowed a lot in Kingston over the past week as in many other places. I love the snow. I love how it makes indoor spaces brighter on gray days (and we have had many of those with gray days far outnumbering sunny ones). I love how snow can seem to make everything quieter, especially during those days and times of days when there are already not so many people driving cars around. I love the sound of snow crunching under foot while walking (a phenomenon reserved usually for crisper, colder days). I love snowmen and snow forts, long stretches of pristine fields and forests covered in glistening snow. I love the moon on the snow and colourful mittens that go with snow–especially hand-made ones. I love snow angels and the giddiness that can come alive in snow as commonly witnessed in children and dogs though something that has also been elicited in adults as I have observed, for example, among colleagues at work in the wonder and dazzle in their chatter and expressions after a particularly beautiful falling of snow.

A tip I might offer to anyone who feels the excitement of snow but finds they often hold back from enjoying it: acquire snowpants. Uninsulated or insulated, they are, in my opinion, a *must* for any adult wardrobe where snow is part of the climate. They make being in the snow much more pleasant and fun. They also serve as a gateway to filling the lands with snow angels, as one example. When you have snowpants, it is much easier to follow the impulse to lie down in the snow, start up your wings (quoting Kat Goldman here from her album, sing your song), and enjoy the peacefulness and expanse of sky. When you have snowpants, it is much easier to leave that unmistakable, magical imprint of flying, icon of life and hope for all who may pass by.

That there has been a lot of snow lately means that there has also been a lot of shoveling. After the last large snowfall, I realized as I began to shovel that my body was still physically tired after the previous shoveling adventures. I realized that I was going to have to complete the task a bit at a time with breaks in between, which made me think of that theme of perseverance bit by bit, one small step at a time. I did. Thankfully, it all worked out just fine. I might mention here, however, words from my 80-plus year old neighbour last weekend one evening when she was shoveling her walk in the midst of a LARGE snowfall and I went over to help her. After a few minutes, she essentially indicated that what we had done (what she had done mostly) was enough for today. Tomorrow is another day, she said and I thought, yes. God willing, good luck, and me doing my part–yes indeed.

As I look out my window right now, I see a series of snow ploughs and sanders have parked across the street from my house–tea time, perhaps–and also that there are thousands of white velvet flakes falling from the grand expanse of gray sky, each one completely unique, each one completely its own entity, all coming together to glisten and dazzle the heart, soften the harsh sounds, and brighten the land once again.

Winter tip number two: a snow shovel is a very good investment.

Kind, warm, bright regards,

tracy

Now there is a fire where there once was a spark...

Do you ever find yourself feeling full, alive with much, touched by many things, yet unsure how to capture any of it with words? I have been finding myself in this space off and on lately–full of much, moved and enlivened by much but unsure how to express all that it stirs, what to say.

Here, I might offer my recommendation of a concert that was recorded last February (2006) in honour of Black History Month. You can listen to the concert on-line at CBC Radio Two’s “Concerts on Demand” website–a site, I might add, that appears to be amazing, full of live-recorded music to explore. Click here to get to the show.

As detailed on the website, Alan Neal, the host of CBC’s radio program, Bandwidth, commissioned various musicians to write a piece of music about Canadian Black historical figures including Eligjah McCoy, Mary Anne Shadd, Portia White, Harry Jerome, Dr. Daniel Hill, and Carrie Best. The musicians had less than two weeks to do this and the results are truly impressive with songs and stories that are informative, deeply moving, sad, inspiring, strong. I listened to the concert for the second time last night on the radio, and it stirred that full feeling in me–absolutely powerful and real though leaning toward the intangible. If you have time, I encourage you to listen to the show all the way through. (To do this, click on the tracks in the order that they appear, beginning with the “Introduction” and ending with “That Lonesome Road”. Mac users will need to have downloaded Windows Media Player for Mac or Flip4Mac or some other program that will play windows media files.)

I also wish to draw special attention to Jill Barber’s song, That Lonesome Road. It is a song that moves me. I first heard this song on the radio about a year ago; next, near the end of this past year, 2006; and third, last night, while listening to the repeat broadcast of the February, 2006 Bandwidth concert. When the song was played on Bandwidth near the end of last year, Alan Neal explained that it was the most requested song of the year. I’m not surprised. Do have a listen. When I heard it last night, I stopped what I was doing (preparing some tasty food) and I sat on my little wooden rocking chair near the radio speakers, listening with attention in full.

Now there’s a fire where there once was a spark
And a woman who made her mark
With the strength not to take it,
find the silence and break it
and to lead with her head and her heart

Jill Barber

If you click here, you will find a legible photograph of the lyrics for the song from a blog by a young, Canadian teacher who attended the recording of the show last year and writes a bit about this experience on her blog, Easy on the Butter.

A word that comes to mind to me now (and often) is journey. I am thinking of the journeys people find themselves on and how they navigate these. I am also thinking today of questions related to how to help another feel that the fight is worth it when they are in a low place, how to help inspire another, how to help them connect to that spark within where they may find their strength.

~

So a young girl makes a choice
Hears the sound of her own voice
She makes up her mind, she’s
determined to find
a way to hear it rejoice
Jill Barber

(And a way to find her own voice.)

On the Chalkboard January 27, 2008

“Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgment that something else is more important than fear.” –Ambrose Redmoon

What is something in your life right now that feels important to aim for, strive for, fight for, face, or gently let in even though there may be fear?

Little Cup of Joy

That is what is accompanying me today as I write: a hot cup of a tea called, Joy. It is one of the Tazo teas and is a current favourite of mine. I love how it’s blend of flavours tastes and how it smells. Today’s cup will also be my last for a while–at least, until I can find a place to purchase more. I have looked but I haven’t found. Apparently, it is a seasonal product, usually released for the December holidays. Indeed, someone gave this tea to me in December as a lovely gift. Today, as like the other days, I will savour each delicious, soothing sip. This on its own, these moments of sipping a tea that warms and delights, offers sustenance to me. I hold the hot, tea-filled, hand-made mug in my hands, the warmth soaks in, and it feels good.

On Overcoming Troubles

Some people drop their kids off at school on their way to work; others drop a mouse off at the park.

Today, we arrive nineteen days into the New Year. I wonder how these past 19 days have been for you? Thus far, I have had some lovely days and faced a few challenges, one of which will provide fabric for this post.

If you had been in my neighbourhood on the evening of the 9th day into the year and had the opportunity to watch as like a fly on a traveling wall, you would have seen what might have appeared a somewhat puzzling site involving me walking down the street in my pyjamas (though bundled up in winter clothes), wearing a headlamp with winter hat snuggly pulled over top so that only the lamp portion was visible (though not initially turned on), and carrying some squarish object in one hand, my face slightly cringing. If you could have taken a read of my vitals, you would have found my heart racing. You would have observed this site, not once but twice.

Ibergekumene tsores iz gut tsu dertseylin: Troubles overcome are good to tell–a Yiddish proverb I read in a book by Primo Levi some time ago.

This particular set of troubles begin with my fear of mice when they are inside my house (or any indoor space I am staying or place I am sleeping)–something I more fully discovered this summer via a series of mice encounters, one set of which at my home when a number of mice decided to move in. I believe I first noticed the signs in a kitchen drawer, what I have now come to think of as the “jackpot” drawer for any mouse. It is the place where all manner of dried goods are stored, among other things. At any given time you might find in it: rolled oats, flours, dried fruit, sugar, etc.

The mice’s feasts and travels in my house in the summer were very, very stressful for me. Catching the mice was also extremely stressful. However irrational, the whole experience bordered on the unbearable for me. I was jumpy, on edge, hyper-attuned to all sounds and stirrings…and becoming sleep-deprived. The situation led me to don my headlamp one night around 1:30 a.m., grab some of my camping gear and pitch a tent in my backyard. Likely, by about 2:00 a.m., I was settling in to what became my new sleeping quarters for the next series of nights. It was too much.

Eventually, I caught some mice in traps, very stress-full, and the population of mice appeared to dwindle to zero. E-v-e-n-t-u-a-l-l-y after that, I was able to relax again in my home, began re-stocking the jackpot drawer, took down the tent and moved to sleeping inside again.

Of course, living with a plethora of mice in the summer at an outdoor education centre part-time didn’t help. This included a high stress, breaking kind of point for me when at least one mouse was actually running over me while I was lying on my bed. When I put my glasses on, there, in clear focus, was a mouse looking up at me from beside my pillow. Needless to say, I moved out of that particular cabin immediately.

I had been told in the summer that, among other things, mice do not like Irish Spring Soap. While researching all things related to mice in the summer, I read conflicting views on this. I was, however, also desperate. If Irish Spring Soap might act as a deterrent, I was up for trying. It was inexpensive and I was game. I put a bar of soap on a saucer on the floor in a corner in the basement in the room where the hot water boiler, hot water tanks, and laundry machines are. I also put a bar under the oven in the kitchen–a place where I could see that mice had been. Every time I opened the oven drawer to get a pan, I could smell the unpleasant aroma of this soap. Eventually, the scent dissipated. The bars remained in place, in tact.

Until one day in mid to late December, I thought of my kitchen’s dried goods drawer as the epitome of fine dining for a mouse. On that winter day, however, I began to discover that Irish Spring Soap can also offer mice plenty of hours of dining pleasure. Based on my observations over the past month, I would now suggest to anyone who is curious, some mice do seem to like the soap and, rather than being repelled, they will come back for seconds.

That perilous day in December, some scales of inner comfort began to tip from relaxed to increasingly anxious and jumpy while at home. I was in the basement room doing laundry or cleaning out the kitty litter or some other task (yes, I have a cat) when I noticed the bar of Irish Spring Soap that had been sitting on its saucer unchanged for months had suddenly reduced in size by half. Feeling the first tingles of unnerved, I zoomed in for closer inspection. There appeared to be sharp indented markings all over the soap. That’s strange, I thought. Does soap ever evaporate and create such a pattern? Though I wished otherwise, I strongly suspected the answer was “no”. Though I wished otherwise, I did suspect what I was viewing were toothmarks, that something had eaten the soap. Likely, there was a newcomer in the house.

My heart sank.

At that point, I should have thrown the rest of the soap in the garbage. I didn’t. No, instead, I put it back where it had been, sitting neatly on the floor on the center of the little dish. I suppose I had hoped it might do what I wanted it to do: to discourage mice from living inside. Instead, it was like I was saying, “Seconds, anyone?”

Sure enough, a few days later, the rest of the soap was gone leaving the plate spotless as if licked clean. Around the same time, I discovered a few mouse droppings in the drawer under the oven. I knew a mouse was around. I knew I would have to do something about this. My heart sank again. My nervousness and stress blossomed. It was too cold to pitch a tent in the backyard.

Then I was away for a few days a few times. The second time I was away, in addition to feeling very stressed about the situation, I also gained a sense of quasi-strength or at least the sense of resolve that I was going to have to face the situation and deal with it somehow. When I returned home, this sense remained although I did not take any specific action. I hoped in earnest that the mouse had decided to move out.

On the morning of the 9th day of the year, a Wednesday, I was sitting on my couch when I saw a small ball of fur literally fly down some stairs toward the basement. Hear-sink number three. I had to do something. I called my neighbour and borrowed a live trap, all significant anxieties fully in tact. What you witnessed that evening (as a fly on the wall) was me twice taking the trap to a nearby open space (park-like though it isn’t actually a park) to potentially release a mouse caught inside. I say potentially because the trap had closed and moved but I couldn’t decipher by weight or sound if there was actually a mouse inside. I was so terrified, I could not open the trap from inside my house to check, nor could I check in my yard out of fear and not wanting it to escape so close to it’s former home. I was very nervous. It was a production simply for me to touch the trap, let alone pick it up. I was scared. It took a lot of effort, a lot of courage in the midst of a lot of cringing and fear.

It is funny in some ways, I know. I do laugh when telling the story and the fear and stress were also very real.

I walked down the street aware of the hilarity of my headlamp (which I was wearing to be able to see into the trap if needed given it was completely dark outside). I walked down the street with trepidation. I also walked down the street knowing that if I did get through this, there would be one less mouse in the house.

Well, both walks that evening were false alarms. There was no mouse in the trap either time. Nevertheless, there was nothing about the scene while going through it that felt like a false alarm to me, like there was no mouse and this was simply a practice run. I picked up the trap and walked with all the fear my body seemed to think was necessary for the situation of having mouse on board.

The next morning, the trapdoor was closed again indicating mouse activity whether there was a mouse inside or not. While I observed the trap sitting on the cement floor and before picking it up, it moved. I knew it was the real deal. With trepidation, I carried it outside once again. This time, I was without headlamp or pyjamas. Instead, I was wearing work clothes, carrying my briefcase, lunch bag, and, of course, lots of fear. I had, however, learned a few things from the previous night’s outings, so came up with a new idea for how to carry the trap and ensure the mouse could not escape unexpectedly. Like so many things, the more we practice it, the more we refine our technique. I managed to release the mouse from the trap, with my fear and its own no doubt both fully in tact. I watched as it hopped across the field–literally hopped. I continued to walk to work. That night, I found myself wondering how the little guy (or gal) was doing. I felt care toward it and hoped that it was okay.

I also hoped that that would be the end: a one mouse in the house only kind of story. It wasn’t. Since then, I have released two more mice in the park, both while on the way to work. At the time of this writing, I have no confidence that the house is now mouse free, and I will be setting the trap again. (I seem to need to take a break between settings.)

Troubles overcome are good to tell.

This story is not about all trouble overcome, nor is it about all troubling aspects of a specific problem being overcome. I am not even sure it’s about overcoming–at least, it’s not about feeling I have fully overcome something I’ve found extremely hard. I remain anxious and my anxieties related to mice in the house and them potentially running on top of me, as one example, has not diminished. I remain more on edge, more jumpy, and more sleep-deprived, finding it hard to fully relax and let my ears stop listening for all sounds that might indicate the threat of something four-legged and very small. But I could say here we do not have to fully overcome something to move forward, nor before we can experience or speak of some overcoming. That I have been dropping off mice on my way to work and refining my technique speaks of a significant personal victory for me. It has been no small feat. It doesn’t matter if some people do not find living with mice or catching them as difficult as I do. No doubt, they will have challenges of their own.

The expression (and book title) feel the fear and do it anyway has come to mind to me while writing this; also, remembering individuality or idiosyncracy, the variability in meaning and context that any given situation may have for a person, and how this impacts the person’s experience of and in it…and valuing that.

Troubles overcome are good to tell. Has there been a trouble you’ve been overcoming or fear you’ve been facing in these early days of this year? Who might you tell? Who would be most likely to respond with understanding and appreciation for what you are facing or what you are trying to do?

May mice live happily but not move in to the house and may the overcoming of trouble shine out hope and strength in the face of troubles themselves.

On the Chalkboard January 13, 2008

“Let us concern ourselves first and foremost with what it is within us that is struggling to be born.”

This comes from Julia Cameron in her excellent book, The Artist’s Way, page 173.

Do you have a sense that there is something in you that is currently struggling to be born? How would you describe it? Do you have a sense of what it is or of what it might be?

A Great Question

Tell me the most important thing that’s going on in your life right now. I heard this quasi-question posed on the radio last weekend and I thought to myself, “what a great question”. The source was Stuart MacLean in an unexpected phone conversation he had with a 15 year old man one day when Stuart dialed a wrong number while recording his radio show. You can hear the conversation that ensued via the January 8th, 2008 podcast of the show, The Vinyl Cafe. (Click on the link, scroll down until you find The Vinyl Cafe, then click some more.)

I imagine, if we were to review responses from a whole bunch of different folk, they would speak to the highs, lows, neutral times, miracles, tragedies, and sufferings that can be part of a person’s life. This makes me think a bit of the art project “PostSecret” where people are invited to create and send in a postcard anonymously, on which they share a secret. There is a wide range of secrets shared–some funny, quirky, happy, others troubling, some very sad. Is the most important thing going on in your life right now public, private, known by many others, a few, or by none?

Tell me the most important thing going on in your life right now. Perhaps here is a reminder of a gift we can offer to people we encounter and that others can offer to us: the invitation and opportunity to share something of significance right now–a great question and a willingness to listen well.

On the Chalkboard January 3, 2008

“One finds enough dropped feathers to build a whole bird.”

This is by Suzanne Buffman from her poem, Two Hands, which is in her book of poetry, Past Imperfect, (c) 2005.

Make Small Resolutions (And Dream Big)

Happy New Year!

For those of you celebrating New Year’s at this time, perhaps your thoughts have drifted to the topic of new year’s resolutions or things you would like to change or continue to work toward. Perhaps your reflections have looked forward and back like Janus, the mythical king of early Rome who had two faces–one on the front of his head that looked forward and one on the back of his head that looked back (see link). Perhaps a combination of this double-looking, as well as time spent absorbing the present moments as they are has led you to a resolution or goal or continued commitment to something you’ve been practicing and aiming toward already.

Rather than new resolutions, I largely fall into the camp right now of continued perseverance with what is already on the go, perhaps with a few extra twists. I had the luxury of spending time over the past few days with friends at a cabin in the woods. I brought up the word conviviality in the context of a book I’ve been reading and enjoying. This led to a discussion of what the definition of conviviality actually is and one friend looking up the word on the dictionary on her mac laptop, to which she found: “[of an atmosphere or event] friendly, lively and enjoyable; [of a person] cheerful and friendly, jovial“. Another friend then summarized this as merriment. In my mental-emotional lexicon, I’ve held conviviality as involving nourishing time spent with excellent friends–perhaps over tasty food, drink, conversation, games–enjoyable, lively, friendly, and with lots of room also for the real challenges people face, including pain. Among those “resolutions” already on the go, I wish to continue to foster, celebrate, and inspire the spirit of conviviality.

You may have heard the expression, “go big or go home.” I want to emphasize here that there is nothing wrong with dreaming big. Indeed, dreaming big is something I whole-heartedly support. Nevertheless, I have been thinking about how sometimes people make new year’s resolutions that fall into the “go big” category, and of how sometimes the resolution’s largeness makes it too hard for the person to maintain, or even to begin: it’s largeness can be intimidating, even discouraging, and the person is not able to get their feet off the ground with it. It isn’t always this way, of course. Sometimes, going big works. Nevertheless, I’ve been revisiting the theme of valuing the small and thinking I would like to extend the invitation to myself and to you, to dream big, yes, and to make a “small resolution” that supports your dream; that is, to aim to make a small change first, then another small change, not a large one all at once.

As one example: perhaps you would like to get more exercise. Making a small resolution might be to commit to getting 5 more minutes of physical activity each day, which might mean walking to the end of the block or lane and back once or marching in front of the tv set on a few sets of commercials or walking up and down a few flights of stairs. It could mean making a goal of going to one fitness class per week instead of four, or swimming (or dancing, skating, running, snow shoeing, or anything else) two times per month. If you did any of these things, at the end of one year you would have either:

• gotten 1825 more minutes of physical activity, which equals almost 30.5 more hours simply by adding in 5 more minutes each day, or
• attended 48 fitness classes of your choosing minus 4 weeks over the year when you were unable to attend, or
• gone swimming, dancing, running etc 24 times over the year!

It seems to me that is significant. It counts. Not only that, if you are able to pick something small that is manageable, what you create is also something lasting–until you decide to make another change. Nothing has to be set in stone. We could take Stuart MacLean’s theme for the Vinyl Cafe here–”we may not be big, but we’re small”–and adjust it slightly to say, It may not be big, but it’s small. The small matters. It counts.

I preface this next bit by saying I have not yet read The Tipping Point by Malcolm Gladwell; however, it is a book that was one among the collective travelling library my friends and I created while at the cabin; one of the people there had brought it along. While browsing it, I came across the following:

We need to prepare ourselves for the possibility that sometimes big changes follow from small events, and that sometimes these changes can happen very quickly. (p. 11)

This made me think of examples like deciding to go to an event or activity and meeting someone there who ends up becoming a lover, or life-long partner, or best friend; the relatively small event that led to the creation of you and me and each and every other person you see. If I am recalling correcting, Malcolm Gladwell writes that we are trained to think that big changes only come from big events yet this is not always so. Small events, small changes, small things can also have a significant impact.

Remembering that there is nothing wrong with dreaming big, or making big changes or goals per se, in the spirit of also valuing and honing in on the small, is there a small change or resolution you might have made or be making? I would love to hear about these–my curiosity and interest is primed–and I’d love for others to be able to hear as well. If you are comfortable, please do share by adding a comment following this post.