High School Reunion (AKA: This is me; is that you?)

I attended a small-town high school in central Alberta. Next week, former students will gather for a 50+ year reunion of my grad class, plus the year previous and the one after. I am, unfortunately, unable to attend. What fun it would be to see how people have changed, whether I would recognize them, or they would recognize me. From 17 to 70 - from youthful insecurity to old age security. When did that happen??

How intriguing to learn about my classmates' life trajectories - joys, sorrows, accomplishments, life-altering events. Are the brash still clinging to their bravado, or have they been humbled by some experience that has altered their perspective? Are the gentle, kind souls still making the world a better place, or have they taken on hard edges because of a tragedy? 

Ah, I am sorry not to be there. But I would like to revisit a few memories and thank some I had hoped to see at this reunion. So to you,

Margaret - thank you for welcoming me that first scary day on the bus. I've never forgotten.

Hilda - thanks for being such a true friend! The distance is too far...

Judy - thank you for your friendship, singing partnership and all that wonderful popcorn!

Janet - thanks for walks down the 'north' road as we choked on our first cigarettes (ugh!).

Irma - thank you for making me laugh.

Audrey, Karen - thanks for memories on the 'Miles for Millions' long walk (remembering Bodkin).

Julian - so sad that you are gone. Thank you for your kind comfort at my neighbour's funeral.

Gordon - thank you for kindly agreeing to be my grad date and swirling me around the floor.

Brian - thanks for letting me win my first game of crib; I'm still winning! 

And then there's the kids from the 'hood - Irmhild (where are you now??), Eckhart, Janet, Dennis, and Brian - thanks for motorcycle rides, horseback riding, endless games of 'Kick the Can' and wiener roasts on warm summer evenings.

Mr. K - so sorry to hear of his passing last year. He was an icon at the school and so influential in our lives. He would have raised his eyebrows to learn I made a career in medical lab after flunking out of Biology 30 not once, but twice.

Mrs. L - her teaching of grammar, spelling and essay structure have stayed with me. She would have been pleased to know I'm a published writer.

To all of you - you have made my life richer by my knowing you and learning lessons about life through who you were in our time spent together. I hope that collectively we have made a positive impact on the world, each in our own corner of it. 

Until we meet again...

 

Planting Time

So I'm in the thrift store the other day and hear a man ask, "Hi Olga," (of course that wasn't her name, but I can't remember) "How's your garden doing?"

"Oh," says she, "not much going on yet."

To which he replies, "I've got lettuce about this big (holding his fingers an inch apart), ..."

That was enough for me. I didn't hear the rest, although he went on to mention other vegetables I hadn't even thought to seed yet. All I could think of was, "Yikes! I'm late!"

Now, a week later, it's still seasonally chilly and windy, and I still haven't gotten out there. Why is it that I don't get it? Some seeds actually like the chill in the soil and air. Me, not so much. And now I'm going away and it's going to be the same as every other year. May long weekend. Everything - cool loving or warm loving - gets put down. (Except for basil; it needs real heat before I set it out).

It's so sad that what we grow up with, we have a hard time diverting from. On the prairies, you darn well waited for the soil to warm before you planted (although my father seeded spinach in the fall).
Really, how long does it take to get out there and throw a few seeds in the ground?

I tend to overthink placement of vegetables. Will I try carrots again this year? They always have those pesky wire worms in them. I could cover them, to prevent that pesky rust fly, but how long? And don't they need moisture? You can't just put plastic over them until you harvest them...

I am thankful for my perennial crops that I only have to prune, fertilize and wait for: asparagus, strawberries, blueberries, blackberries, grapes, kiwi, tayberries.

Every year I conduct one experiment. One year it was those mini squash, one year millet, and this year I'm going to try potatoes in my compost.

Through all the angst of planting, I'm grateful that I usually get a fair crop. I know what's gone into it, that it's been carefully and organically cared for, and that, when they're ready, I can pick the freshest veggies you can get.

Time to get out there!

Restart

For some reason, I'm back at this blog. I'm ashamed for having left it alone for so long. And yet, there is a question that niggles in the back of my mind. Why blog? Who will read? Who will care? 

I'm afraid of posting boring drivel. Last night in a dream, a publisher told me that I needed to 'pick up my game'. I was too sentimental - not 'edgy' enough. So, now, a bit of self-examination. Probably more than a little apprehension setting in. 

Time is often an issue, since I have multiple of passions vying for my attention. My definition of passion: strong enthusiasm for something that seemingly makes time stand still. If you are engaged in a passion, the clock has no effect. Before you know it, lunch has long since passed, it's time to think about making dinner, but you wish someone would lay out a nice meal for you instead (and if you think on it hard enough or ignore it long enough, maybe someone will - but don't hold your breath. Just sayin'). 

On any given day, I can be found in the garden, at my computer, my musical instruments or my easel. Which generates a serendipitous thought: if my definition of passion is true, if engaging in passions renders time inconsequential, perhaps I will be so occupied through eternity, where time is no more. How lovely! Meanwhile, here on earth...in space and time, it's another matter. Every day has only twenty-four hours, each week seven days. Deadlines loom, schedules must be adhered to.

You see my dilemma. Besides travelling, family, volunteering and day-to-day chores, I have all of these passions tugging at me. I've thought of labelling days - as does my husband. He has Mundane Monday (chores), Toy Tuesday (hobbies), Water Wednesday (RC boats), Thrifty Thursday (bargain hunting), Fun Friday (outings, whatever). And then, oh look! - it's the weekend:)

Perhaps this could be my week: Music Monday,  Task Tuesday (chores), Water Color Wednesday, Tending Thursday (garden, family, friends), Fun Friday (as above). Writing can't be done in just one day, so it would have to be integrated into each day - preferably for a minimum of two hours. Of course one also cannot tend garden one day in the week, as it's so weather-dependant. So perhaps one hour a day in the garden. I doubt I could stay at my tasks for a full day, or even get them done in one whole day, especially with special tasks like cleaning the fridge and washing windows thrown into the mix. 

Back to the drawing board. 

A New Reality

My husband is set to retire in a bit over a year. He's approaching it with a casual attitude, although he has his specific date picked out. In the past few years, business had slowed down a bit, and he's OK with that. Says he's 'practicing' for retirement.

Both of us recognize that there is a little glitch that's wormed its way into our financial lives, though. Our cash flow is less than it has been. And so, we need to manage that little glitch so we don't find ourselves with a huge negative balance. Not that we'll need to go live under a bridge anytime soon, but we don't want to start using our retirement savings until he is truly retired. My paltry writing income is inconsequential, so curbing our spending seems to be the best way to do the balancing act.

Last year, we celebrated our 40th wedding anniversary, and spent some cash on a lovely shindig, more cash on a trip to Coeur d'Alene (recreating our honeymoon), and even more cash on a family vacation with our kids and grandkids. It was wonderful!

So now, we are in the 'Year of Austerity', as Don calls it. We're having a bit of fun thinking of ways to cut back, but it's not that bad, although I really don't like to consider every purchase I make. That's just not me. I do like to splurge once in awhile. We've actually done very well these first few month of 2016, in spite of the plummeting looney.

As I was thinking about the 'Year of Austerity', I started to sing a tune from the 60's…This is the dawning of the year of austerity, year of austerity…you know the song (unless you're very young). Maybe one day I'll get some musical friend to help me record it.  Hope you enjoy.

This is the dawning of the year of austerity, year of austerity...

Seems that we’ve been overspending

Time for us to face reality;

As our income nears cessation

No more lofty expectations,

No more sand and sea vacations,

Just non-stop precipitation...Austerity, austerity.

This is the dawning of the year of austerity, year of austerity...

Checking sales and clipping coupons,

Purchasing just our necessities.

Shopping never was frustrating,

Have you seen the price of bacon?

It’s a second look I’m takin’

Surely they must be mistaken... Austerity, austerity.

This is the dawning of the year of austerity, year of austerity...

Cancel satellite and land line,

Keep the thermostat to minimum;

Cook at home and grow our veggies,

Take the challenge, live on less, 

Might as well enjoy the process

If we need to live this way, I guess...Austerity, austerity.

This is the dawning of the year of austerity, year of austerity…


We'll keep plugging away and see how we make out this year. Then perhaps next year we can loosen the purse strings a bit.

Keeping Plants Hydrated in the Midst of Watering Restrictions

In the words of Blues musician W. C. Handy, "You'll never miss the water 'til the well runs dry." Just like the air we breathe, how easy it is to take water for granted. (Those in areas affected by summer wildfires know what it is to live without clean air).

 The last number of summers in and around Vancouver have been dryer than usual.  This year's drought has prompted severe watering restrictions. I have a large garden of trees, shrubs, perennials, a few annuals and a vegetable/berry patch. I am responsible for this little part of creation, and it's my job to keep these plants from wilting, browning up and losing their leaves and flowers prematurely. And what a shame it would be to lose the vegetables that are now just coming into their own - beans, cucumbers, tomatoes, basil and lettuce, not to mention my very first crop of kiwis! While I can still use a spring-loaded hand sprayer to water my plants, I'm anticipating the next stage, and getting ready.

But I'm not usually one to panic. In an effort to comply with these very necessary restrictions, I have begun catching and using what water I can to help my garden out. Should you decide to use some of my methods, please keep in mind that when re-using water, you must be careful about any soaps or chemicals you've used, being sure they're biodegradable, and won't harm your vegetation. As it turns out, soapy water is often used to deter garden diseases and pests.

So here are a few changes I'm making while the restrictions last (and maybe I'll even keep a few forever after):

Hand washing: It takes about 1/2 gallon of water to wash my hands properly. I'm leaving a bit of soapy water in a small container in the sink. I wash my hands, then rinse from the tap. When the container's full, I empty it into a larger pail for watering plants.

Dishes: I'm washing dishes by hand (just like in the 'old days') in a plastic tub. I rinse off the worst food particles and grease before washing them. Besides conserving water, I can use the dishwater for garden plants/trees.

Shower: For some time now, I've been showering every second day.  I've not admitted this in public, because people will probably draw some incorrect assumptions about me. However, I happen to have sensitive skin that dries easily. (When I was a kid, most people bathed once a week, on Saturday night. Just ask Grandma. So glad we're past that!) But back to my point. Showering every 2nd day instead of daily, conserves water and is less drying to the skin. Turning off the water while shampooing and soaping down conserves the water by more than half.  If you have enough room in your shower and you're really diligent, place a bucket in the shower with you. See how much water you catch. Use it in the garden. Bathing uses a great deal more water than showering, but the small kids need their bath, so try bailing out as much of the bathwater as you can for garden use.

Laundry: I've pulled my top load washer away from the wall for access to the outflow hose. By timing the washing cycle and being there when the tub empties, I'm able to catch almost 40 gallons for each of the wash and rinse cycles (on a medium load). My shrubs are thankful! I line up 4 or 5 10 - gallon pails. When one is almost full, I push in the cycle button to stop the water flowing so I can move the hose to the next pail, and so forth. I'm also trying to time laundry for effective watering, rather than doing all loads in one day.

Short of going out and buying a front loading washer, a low-flush toilet or water-conserving shower head, there are a few other methods of saving water.

Sensible water use:

•  Turn off the tap while brushing your teeth, scrubbing your hands, etc.
• Catch the running water while you're waiting for it to come to temperature.
• Any water you use (washing your floor, etc) can be used to water your (or your neighbor's) garden. 
• Flush less (I know, but little kids and avid water drinkers can often use the toilet a few times between flushes). 

Whether or not you find these ideas helpful may depend on whether you grew up in a resourceful household during leaner years. There was a time when we looked carefully at our consumption of all things. Maybe this is the upside of water restrictions. And maybe we'll develop some good habits for the future. After all, not only would we miss the water should the well run dry, we couldn't survive without it!

Please share any other practical ideas you have for water conservation.

When Friends Struggle

I was thinking today about the fine line between being helpful and being overbearing. Sometimes it's hard to know exactly where that line exists. This is especially true when I see members of my  community struggling with mental illness and/or depression.

Usually they feel the stigma that's long been attached to a disability that is not visible to the naked eye. There's no bone to set, no muscle spasms to massage away, no incision to heal. The cause of the illness is often anybody's guess. Anything from a repressed past, to a chemical imbalance, a build-up of long held inner stress, or a combination of all of the above.

When I run into them or call, I feel like it's so trite to ask, "How are you?" or even, "I'm praying for you". Each person is different and reacts differently to how I might support them. Or the same person will react differently from one time to another. Saying that they're in my daily prayers meets with a positive reaction one time, and a 'look' another time. One person still believes that God is walking alongside them somehow, somewhere - while the other has given up on a God who doesn't seem to be anywhere present.

Sometimes just being present, in silence, is the best thing, although it can feel pretty awkward. Any of us who have gone through tough stuff know that having someone available is a gift.  It may be good to admit that I'm at a loss to help, although we want to. Asking what we can do may be the right thing.  Or just doing something practical could be the best - bring a meal, invite them out for coffee, offer to do some daily chores that are overwhelming. It all boils down to being sensitive to what we notice, who the person is, and what my heart is telling me.

And I guess that maybe sometimes feeling helpless is what life is about. As long as feeling helpless doesn't become justification to leave them all alone.

O Canada!

Yesterday I attended a Remembrance Day Service at the local Cenotaph. I hadn't been for a few years, and was surprised by the attendance numbers. Perhaps people came out in a show of patriotism after the shooting at Ottawa's cenotaph and in Quebec a few weeks ago. With global terrorism incidents so regular in our news, it strikes me over and over again how blessed I am to be a Canadian citizen.

Ours is a country that truly strives for respect of all races, colors, faiths and nationalities. I'm proud of that.  Ours is also a country that steps in to work for peace. I'm proud of that too. I'm grateful for our military troops, for our law enforcement and first responders.

I feel so blessed to have been born in this country.  How different life is in parts of the world where children grow up with strong biases against certain groups, where violence is the norm, or where poverty keeps children or sometimes just girls from getting a decent education, health care or proper nutrition. I could have been born in a country where children are taught to bear arms - and use them - at an early age.

Growing up, I somehow supposed that people the world over lived more or less like I did. What a naive assumption that was! How much I have learned - and in the learning come to see that, being blessed as I am, I am responsible to be a part of their solution in whatever way i can.

And indeed, I am so grateful for this country. My country.

When we sang "O Canada" at the service yesterday, I had to stop singing for the lump that formed in my throat. God, keep our land glorious and free...

Apologies

I was listening to Stuart McLean on CBC this morning - The Vinyl Cafe series.

I've always enjoyed his work. He's informing, thought-provoking, funny, his sense of timing is impeccable, and he's believable. I think most Canadians who listen to his stories respect McLean for the being a loyal Canadian who often brings out the lighter side of our nationality while exposing our vulnerabilities.

This morning, McLean offered an apology for how he came across in one of his previous broadcasts. Before offering his own apology, McLean spoke highly of Prime Minister Harper's admission of wrong and apology to the Canadian First Nations for the treatment they received in residential schools over more than a century. McLean also talked about the Australian Government, taking it a step further with their Aboriginal People by declaring an annual 'Sorry Day', to remember the wrongs committed and put some traction to their apology.

Listening to McLean's apology - something that, quite frankly, was an anomaly for the program - gave me greater respect for the man as a writer and human being. He spoke of writing, and how writers do what they do to release the thoughts and ideas within themselves, and also to bring greater awareness of history and current events to their readers. I had some 'Yes!' moments as I resonated with his comments.

McLean's own admission of insensitivity made me realize that no matter how loved or accomplished we are in what we do - as writers, communicators - we are bound to make mistakes. Other people will come forward to challenge our ideas, our assumptions or our attempts to present issues in a specific light. This is not a bad thing. I liked McLean's comment that he was given "pause".

Sometimes our errors are, in hindsight, embarrassing. We look back, smack our forehead with our palm, and ask ourselves, "How could I have done that?" Other times, we realize we've committed errors by not thinking things through from all angles.  And there are always many.

Just this week, I was bemoaning the fact that I had made a blunder. In retrospect, I'm still not sure how I managed to do it, yet I, like McLean had been unwittingly insensitive to someone through my writing.

My ever-supportive husband recognized my need for a hug, and reminded me that he, too, struggles when he makes mistakes in his work. We feel like we should know better. We're hard on ourselves. But taking 'pause' is important. Considering how I have annoyed or hurt someone is humbling.

Writing is risky. Following our heart and dreams is risky. Sometimes we'll look ridiculous in the opinion of others.

Is it worth it? Definitely. Anything worth doing demands a striving for excellence and has its own rewards.

Taking responsibility for what I say and do gives me credibility as a human being, humility as a writer and earns the respect of others if I'm sincere in my apology and learn from my blunders. We'll never be perfect this side of Heaven.  That said, I still hate making mistakes.

Zombies and Miracles

When I heard a radio ad about the annual Zombie Walk in Vancouver last week, I got to thinking about how some people get their 'kicks'. I, for one, don't get it. To me there's nothing lovely, attractive, beautiful or compelling about dressing up like the 'walking dead' with blood smeared all over my face and body.

I considered posting a picture of the heinous costumes and make-up, but I couldn't do it. Not even to give you an idea of what this looks like. It's just too...gruesome and truthfully, the pictures sicken me, as I'm sure they're meant to.

I find it incredulous that people actually enjoy playing around with the ugliness of death, deformity, mutilation, gore and decay. Where's the attraction? Innocent fun? Really?

One of the rules for the Vancouver Zombie Walk states: 'Though we big kids all see the fun in it, small children may not, and if you see any children reacting fearfully, please do not add to their distress. Just move on and let their parents explain … do NOT accidentally be the douche who gives them nightmares for a week by leering in their face.'

So what, exactly, do the parents explain? What would I say to my grandkids if we didn't know this was going on and happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time? Ah,... kids, this is just some big people having a bit of fun.  Just try to forget what you saw...put it out of your head so you don't have nightmares...?

I ask myself, what is this - an example of the human spirit's propensity for being drawn to the darkness that seeks to destroy them? A preoccupation with death as the ultimate experience, perhaps? Or is it to engage in an 'other-world experience'? Something out of the ordinary?

Maybe they're just trying to find a way to connect with the physical death that inevitably will come at some point for each of us.

For some reason, I'm drawn to things that are intrinsically beautiful and lovely. I'm also drawn to the power that exchanges ugliness for beauty. To experience this kind of power is the ultimate experience. No greater power exists than the power of Jesus, who lived to bring healing, joy, life and hope to those who needed it most. I'm counting on coming out of the grave, too...but not in the form of a zombie. I'm coming out with a glorious new form - pure, clean and glorious.


Today I went online to Bible Gateway to prepare for a women's group I meet with. I read an interview with Dr. Mark Batterson (https://www.biblegateway.com/blog/2014/09/god-still-performs-miracles-an-interview-with-mark-batterson/), about his book, The Grave Robber. 

 In his book, Dr. Batterson talks about the life that Jesus gave wherever he went; his power and miracles that are still in evidence today, if we have eyes to see them. He says, 'I offer an important warning at the beginning of the book: don’t seek miracles. Seek Jesus. And if you seek Jesus, you’ll eventually find yourself in the middle of some miracles. Why? Because that’s who Jesus is. That’s what Jesus does'

Now THIS is out of the ordinary in a BIG way! Zombie Walkers, try The Grave Robber on for size!

A Salute to Artists

Sally Mankus, Mixed Media

Many artists have been disparaged or dismissed outright by their families or friends - most likely because the practicality of 'doing' art is difficult. Making a living at it is at very least, risky. In addition to being held in dubious regard by those closest to them, artists will tell you about the self-doubt they struggle with, simply because of the subjectivity of their product. Are they good enough? What if their product doesn't sell? What if something technical goes wrong during the performance? What will the critics say? How will those who matter most, react?

No matter the source, rejection is a bitter pill to swallow. Indifference is no better.

A world without art is unimaginable. Art provides color in an otherwise black-and-white existence. An exquisite sculpture, a thought-provoking painting, a mixed-media piece that reminds us of our history, a book that we can't put down, a musical score that takes our breath away or an intriguing drama that stays with us for days.

As tasty, nourishing food is to the body, good art provides sustenance for the spirit. It exhilarates us, makes us think differently about the world, gives us hope, inspires us, serves to provide valuable introspection, connects us more deeply with God or neighbor, or simply entertains us, allowing us to 'get away' for a few moments or hours. Art can trouble us, stimulate us, and hopefully change us in some way for the better.

Is art essential? Absolutely. Interesting to think that we - especially in our Western bourgeoisie culture - most often favor practical, physical needs over our emotional, spiritual fulfillment. We are known to seize every opportunity to get ahead, working frantically to procure goods and services, forgetting that our spirits need to be fed - indeed, that by feeding them, we become refocused. We slow down, becoming deeper - ever moving towards wholeness.

It is my hope that artists will do their best to ignore the indifference or criticism they encounter for following their calling. May they continue to challenge our thinking, arouse our passions, entertain and delight us. May their goal always be to strive for excellence in their craft, to be bold enough to share their gifts with the world and to surround themselves with those who support them in their often uncertain environment. May they know that the Creator, who fashioned us in His image, has put within each of them their unique imagination for this very purpose.

“What can we say beyond Wow, in the presence of glorious art, in music so magnificent that it can't have originated solely on this side of things? Wonder takes our breath away, and makes room for new breath.” 
 (Ann Lamott, Help Thanks Wow: Three Essential Prayers)

What Constitutes Art?

A conversation with someone in the arts community got me thinking about our concept of art and how most people think about art. In this conversation, we were discussing various examples of creativity when the other person suggested that a garden constitutes art. I suppose I've often thought of art in the garden, but not as the garden being art.

Considering all the work that went into designing and implementing our garden and the time I regularly spend making decisions about which plants to move where - so that the result will be more pleasing to view and inhale - it makes perfect sense that the garden would be regarded as a piece of art.

When we refer to art, most people think of a painting, drawing or sculpture. Mention the arts, and music, drama, poetry and film come to mind. My own definition of art is 'something created - as an expression of an ideal or thought - that is not overtly practical.' That's my first go at it. I'm eager to see what Merriam-Webster's Dictionary says.

       art - the conscious use of skill and creative imagination esp. in the  production of aesthetic objects

We could argue that engaging in the practical  can indeed result in artful results. Cooking can be an art, as can decorating a room or designing and making a piece of furniture.

The person I had the aforementioned conversation with was David Vandas, Publisher and Senior Editor of WeMakeStuff (www.WeMakeStuff.ca).  A second volume of a coffee table book featuring 100 local artists is in the making, with a kickoff on September 14. The community of artists involved with WeMakeStuff support and encourage one other in a passion that is often misunderstood or not understood, especially by those who are not artists themselves. But more about artists in a future blog.

Sometimes art is created to make a statement. Sometimes it is created because of an idea that refused to lie dormant in the imagination. Many times art expresses beauty that resides around us or in us. Sometimes art is unpleasant to encounter, yet to encounter it is transformational.

Today, take a few moments to think about what you have created, and how you have been artful lately.  One of my routine art projects involves strolling around the garden, arranging something of beauty for my table. How about you?

Procrastination and Motivation

I know it sounds silly, but I dressed up this morning, just to sit at my desk and write.

Many a writer's life is plagued with procrastination. Taking a Creative Writing class at Regent, I listened as Maxine Hancock told us this would happen.  We'd do anything to avoid getting our butts in the chair and our fingers onto our pens or computers. I was skeptical then; now I know this to be more true than I would like to admit.

This morning I spent a few hours putting my unruly garden in its place. Deadheading perennials, edging runaway boundaries, pulling endless clover and misplaced grass. When I decided it was time to go inside and get ready for my writing day, I showered and decided to dress professionally, even though I was staying home.

I had just settled myself at my desk when a vehicle drove up - a friend popping by for a few minutes.  When I greeted her at the door, she asked if I was going out. She was puzzled by my 'casual business' attire, and wondered why I would dress this way at home. I supposed it must seem rather bizarre.  I've read Anne Lamott's descriptions of her sweat pants and T-shirt days, which must make business professional somewhat envious now and then. Once in awhile, though, I am motivated by 'getting ready' for work. Some days, dressing like a professional makes me feel like a professional (not to mention that a mid-calf jersey skirt is actually comfortable and good garden wear, should I move outside).

At the Write! Vancouver conference last weekend, we were all made to repeat, aloud, a number of times, "I am a writer". Even though I've been writing for years (I won a song lyrics contest in grade 7) and have been published over the last two, I still often don't consider myself to be one. The title 'Writer' seems so lofty and abstract somehow. Still, that's what I am.

So if you ever stop by on a weekday and I look a little over dressed for what I do, don't pay me any mind. I'm just trying to 'get in the groove'.

The Gift of Spring

I never cease to be amazed by the gentle unfolding of our West Coast spring season. Tiny crocuses bravely sport their bright yellow, magenta, white and even striped petals of paper-like delicateness, competing with the showy ornamental plum and cherry blossoms that leave no doubt in anyone's mind of spring's arrival. In my own back yard, the Star Magnolia brandishes pure white anemone blooms before the tree leafs out.

I've been out the past few days cleaning up last year's leftover oak leaves, pruning overgrown shrubs and dividing over-enthusiastic grasses. I lost a favorite shrub - Patty's Purple Hebe - over the winter, so I used that as an excuse (really, who needs one?) to visit my favorite nursery where I found a Daphne 'eternal fragrance'. Similar in size and color to Patty's Purple Hebe, it promises a crop of blooms lasting from early spring through to autumn.  I have a Winter Daphne now established, that's been blooming profusely throughout March and into this month. The fragrance of this shrub overtakes me every time I open the patio door or walk by. I picked a little twig and stuck it behind my ear to enjoy its scent for the day. I'm hoping the summer Daphne will produce a similar effect out front of the house, greeting visitors with its heady perfume.



I also purchased a Clematis Jackmannii to intertwine with my spring-blooming Clematis that's gotten a little messy, hence a clipping (even though it's not one that ought to be pruned back as it flowers in May - don't care, had to clean it up a bit). The Jackmannii will provide blossoms during the summer months, creeping up one side of the wooden archway and across to meet the climbing Lacecap Hydrangea from the other side. I'd been wanting to get a Jackmannii the last few years, just didn't get to it. Growing two different-season clematis together should keep the interest and color going until fall.

In the herb department, I bought some cilantro, which I love to eat, but have never had much luck growing. Either it wouldn't germinate, or it would grow tall and spindly, then go to seed. I'm going to plant it in a different location this time; a cooler spot in partial, not full, sun. We'll see how that works.

On the other hand, we ate fresh spinach just the other day...layered with a bechamel sauce, crab and sole, then baked. Very tasty! I still have some leftover kale in the garden from last year which I pick at.  I like it right off the plant - who needs a recipe? The spring chives are begging to be snipped into salads, scrambled eggs and potatoes.

I was so enthused at the garden center that I picked up several small plants (to add to my over-wintered geranium hanging basket) and brought them to the counter. Melanie (the helpful cashier) looked me in the eye and said, "You know these have to be inside for another month yet; you'll have to keep them indoors and water them.  You'll also have to pinch the tops to keep them full."

 "I guess I'm a little early, huh?" to which she replied. "I can put these back for you." What a nice lady!

Back at home, I planted the Clematis and the Daphne, and found a nice little spot for the cilantro. Not only is it therapeutic to dig around in the dirt, it's exhilarating to straighten up at the sound of eagles circling overhead or the cheerful chirping of tiny finches and sparrows as they flit from branch to branch.

When the weather is agreeable, gardening won't wait; everything else does.

God Speaks

There are those who don't believe that God still speaks to us today. I'm not talking about his voice coming to us through the text of scripture or through preachers on Sunday morning, although this is his primary way of speaking to us.  But there are times when God speaks to us either directly (that audible voice within us) or indirectly through another person.  I've experienced both.

In fact, last week I received a phone call from our pastor about a single mom who needed help - "she's very distressed at the moment - here's her cell number" - and was there something our deacons (I am one) could do to help her?  She had been evicted; all her belongings were sitting on the parking lot of her building. The bailiff was there, and the movers couldn't load up her things until she had a confirmed address for delivery. 

Our local social assistance office had checked out the local women's shelters, but there was no room. A few churches had been called, but nothing yet. The distraught woman lived in our community, only a few blocks from me, as it turned out.  I didn't know her, know of her, and frankly, I hoped someone else would step forward - in the next few minutes.

I called a few of my fellow deacons...no one was home at the time. Hmmm....what to do...

I called a friend from my church - a wise woman - who also happens to be involved in our Single Moms Ministry. Perhaps she would recognize the name, and assure me it was safe to enter into this situation. The name didn't ring a bell. I explained the situation, expressing my hesitation to get involved. One question uppermost in my mind - why was she being evicted? Maybe this woman is an addict, a drug dealer, or who knows what? (Ah, that warm, cozy comfort zone). My husband and I could possibly put her and her daughter up for a few nights - but that's all, since we're going away on the weekend.  I told my friend I was nervous about taking this on - to which she, in her gentle voice replied, "But that's what we're called to do, isn't it?"

God could not have spoken to me in a more distinct voice.  I heard him clearly.

I called the evicted woman, who was, understandably, in a state of panic. Within 15 minutes, we met at a local restaurant for coffee, where she told me her story. We discussed her immediate need. I knew of someone who might at least have room to store her belongings for a few weeks (the storage company wanted 3 months payment up front).

Within an hour of leaving the restaurant, we had not only found a place for her belongings to be stored, but had found a possible home for her and her daughter. The solution came through one of our church families who had both room for their things, and (unbeknownst to me) a furnished suite for rent - that they were willing to reduce the rate on. What a wonderful Divine orchestration of events! That afternoon, all was confirmed and mother and daughter moved in that evening.

She and her delightful daughter joined us for dinner, as we enjoyed lively conversation and their company before taking them to their new home (an affordable, furnished suite, no less).

Funny how we need reminding and encouragement to do the right thing. If there's one thing I've learned in following Christ, it's that obedience is the primary thing.  It's how the kingdom comes.

Restorative Justice

In the past few years, I've had opportunity to do a few articles on the topic of restorative justice.  This does not make me an expert, but has certainly provided me with much food for thought.

When our son was little, he stole a roll of candies from the corner store. When I asked him where he'd gotten the candy and he confessed, we talked about why stealing is wrong, and how we should correct this situation. Together we walked back to the store, where he faced the store owner, admitted what he had done, and apologized. I don't think he ever stole anything again (at least not to my knowledge). This is a very simple example of restorative justice.

A website dedicated to restorative justice, defines it as a theory of justice that emphasizes repairing the harm caused or revealed by criminal behavior. It is best accomplished through cooperative processes that include all stakeholders. 

It is in our human nature to seek retribution when we or our loved ones are violated in some way. Our whole sense of what's fair in a situation comes into play. We want the offender to pay for their deeds. It is difficult to think otherwise when we have lost something or someone through crime.

I am not excusing criminal behavior or consequences for crimes committed. I believe that justice includes accountability for the offender. The question is, what is appropriate? Is there more than just a sentence that needs to be served? How can healing take place? After all, that should be the goal, should it not?  Healing for the offended - and, dare I suggest it? - for the offender.

As the name suggests, restoration is the premise of the restorative justice process.  It's easy for victims of violence to become entrenched in a cycle of hatred, revenge and a victim mentality, a cycle non-conducive to healing. The cycle, while understandable, begets further hatred and possible violence. Some kind of intervention is helpful in ending the cycle.

Restorative justice, where both victim and offender are willing, brings both parties together. It allows the offender to offer sincere regret for what they've done, to acknowledge their part in altering the lives of the offended, and to take responsibility for their actions. The victims or their families are given the opportunity to hear and acknowledge the apology - to know there is some regret on the part of the offender.

Confession provides healing, even if punishment is still due. It's a relief to confess what has been festering inside our souls. Hearing someone confess to us can also provide opportunity for mercy to make an appearance. Apologies do not remove effects of a crime. Mercy or forgiveness does not preclude a sentence fitting the crime. It does ease the heart of both parties to some degree. It can help to end the cycle of hatred and violence.

RJ is not a quick fix. Working through loss towards mercy or through guilt towards freedom can take a lifetime. We have heard the saying 'an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth.'  But now, have been shown a better way.

Paying Attention in the New Year

Another year passed, a new one begun - Happy New Year!  May 2014 be a year in which truth, peace and love are evident in our own lives, and also globally.

I went for a long walk this morning, and (no surprise) noticed many people out walking or running.  This is the day when we turn over a new leaf, set our goals for another year.  The calendar has turned to a page that is fresh and white, with a new number - 2014. Could this be the year our dreams become reality? The possibilities are endless. The old is gone, the new is here - we get to re-draw the picture, or re-write the script.  It's an opportunity too good to miss. 

It feels good to have another chance, doesn't it?  As a kid, I remember - every September - entering a new classroom, getting new notebooks, and writing beautifully in those clean, perfect notebooks for at least the first week. But then the assignments piled up, I started to hurry, and got careless.  Pretty soon, my writing was looking messy (no wonder we called our notebooks 'scribblers').  And every September I'd try again.  I never gave up.

Looking back through several  journal entries, I notice that each year, the goals I come up with are often very similar to what I resolved in previous years.  Maybe this is because I never really 'arrive'.  Most times, my determination holds strong for a few months, until I (ever so slowly) slide back into old familiar habits.  I start to eat the wrong foods, I neglect to set specific time aside for my spiritual growth, I grow weary of searching out publishers for my work.

It's likely that I'm not alone in this.  If everyone met their goals, being granted new opportunities in a new year wouldn't be nearly as appealing. There would be no talk of New Years' resolutions. If we accomplished our goals, we wouldn't need that fresh calendar page to give us hope.  We'd simply carry on from one success to the next.  But our personalities, formative influences and circumstances often hamper our ability to be persistent and consistent.

What comforts me in all of this is that I don't need a new year to begin again.  Every day affords a fresh start; God gives me that opportunity with each new sunrise.

But this I call to mind and therefore I have hope: The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases, his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. (Lam 3:21-23)

God's mercies are there to pick me up, and they're never ending. How amazing is that? No matter how many times I'm stuck in my failure, He urges me to acknowledge my weakness, submit it to Him, and move on with renewed hope in His faithfulness. 

The other thing that comforts me is that I've got Someone in my corner - not just passively watching, but leading me forward, providing all I need. If I'm paying attention, I'll notice that the path is laid out for me.  The canvas and the page have been well prepared.

I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert. (Isaiah 43:19)

A new thing - the desert's gonna bloom!  Forgetting the past, leaving my failures behind, I have new hope, knowing I'm loved for who I am, and that my dreams are valued.  So I resolve to pay attention; I'm eager to perceive the newness that's ready to spring forth!  How about you?

Of Careers, Calling and Parental Pride

Earlier this year, I blogged about having pride in our kids - pride that comes naturally for parents. 

I remember my dad being proud of his daughters, making it known that he could farm with his two daughters just as well as any man with sons (maybe his biases skewed his perception just a bit...). We have a number of friends whose kids have worked in the family business, which must be a good feeling - sharing knowledge, goals, looking at ways to move the company into the next phase or change, building together. We are naturally pleased when our kids follow in our footsteps, choosing to emulate us in their job or profession.
 
Growing up, I knew a large family whose kids all became either pastors, doctors, nurses or professors, most of them taking on a missionary stint in Africa or other developing country. To the last one, they were kind and compassionate, displaying none of the arrogance we often associate with highly successful people. I wondered what conversations around their supper table must have been like.  While we were talking about the best way to avoid scours (diarrhea) in newborn calves, they were likely discussing the latest medical breakthrough and the impact it would have on those who might benefit - or perhaps debating a difficult theological problem.  As years passed, my respect for this family only grew - parallel to their accomplishments which truly benefited people in countless ways. It's enough to make most of us just a bit envious.

What constitutes success? Is it our education?  Our accomplishments?  Our status?  Our wealth? Our health? Our fame?

Throughout history, people who lived what we call a 'full' life - who made a difference somewhere, were people who listened to their heart. They leaned in to their potential. (What is our potential, if not who we were created to be?) Instead of emulating someone else, they discovered who they really were, and developed that person. They responded to their own specific calling. Isn't that a worthy task for each of us? To find and follow the passion and gifts that lie inside of us?

I recall walking through the Alexander Graham Bell Museum in Baddeck, Nova Scotia some years ago. Meandering through the displays, reading about this extraordinary man completely mesmerized me. This was a man whose greatest passion lay in compassion for people and discovering new ways of communicating, especially related to the hearing impaired. He was too busy working out his new ideas to worry about the financial rewards of his labor. He handed his telephone company, Ma Bell, over to his wife, which made her a very wealthy woman. He didn't work for fame; he cared deeply about people and used his inquisitive and creative mind to follow his heart. You can almost imagine the neighbors shaking their heads and saying things like, "Why isn't that man out making a decent living? Imagine just staying in that workshop every day! What will all his experimentation get him?" Still he forged ahead. His calling was greater than his desire for approval.

None of our kids have followed in our footsteps in terms of education or career. None of our kids has remained in the family business. None of our kids has status or wealth. None of our kids have achieved fame. What they have done is followed their hearts, and let God guide them to their best life...in an ongoing journey.  Each is being true to his/her own calling (each very different from their siblings) - and yet each one exerts positive influence in the lives of others; of that I have no doubt.  I know this, in part, because they influence me.

I don't expect, or even desire that our kids be like us. My hope and joy comes in seeing them find and follow their specific passion, working to develop their talents and gifts, even when it's hard and demands sacrifice. That they do so with integrity - continuing always to follow God's best for them - not for someone else. Envying someone else's place in life is a sure path to failure and defeat.

Accepting who we are, discovering our potential and then striving to be our best is one of the key ingredients to wholeness. When our children (and grandchildren) learn through success and through failure - in the confidence they are unique individuals who have a unique place in this world, I'm in their corner.  My heart is instilled with respect and yes, even pride.

A New Life

The conflict I wrote about in my previous blog has been resolved.
My mom passed away on November 1st.

As I indicated in my previous post, I had struggled - not insignificantly - with end of life decisions.  I was glad for the one-mindedness that my sister and I felt, and the validation by her physician.

Mom struggled against her oxygen mask and her IV in her final days.  Because of her memory loss, she didn't remember - more than a few seconds - when we told her the oxygen was to make her better. Mom was usually a pretty upbeat person, but it was clear that she felt almost claustrophobic. She wanted freedom.  A few times, she mumbled to me, "I can't anymore."
She hated having the mask on, and even the nasal tube when her meals came.  At one point, she just kept trying to pull it off and was becoming very agitated.  I found it painful to watch her discomfort and angst. I said, to her (in Dutch), "That rotten thing, hey?"
"Ya!" she exclaimed. 
I took it off and asked, "Is that better?"

For the first time, she actually laughed, and said, "Ya!" with a big, beaming smile.
As she continued to deteriorate, we consulted with the physician about the reality of her condition.  It was clear that if she was to get better, it would be a long road of fighting with oxygen and IV.

Then, overnight, she became unresponsive. My sister and I went in to speak with her doctor.  We asked him whether the most compassionate thing would be to remove all the tubes, allowing her to die in comfort and with dignity.  He concurred with our thoughts.
We asked how long she might last.  He said it would be anywhere from 2 hours to a few days.
As it turned out, she went within the hour.

My mom was a woman of faith. Her hope and salvation was in the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. We cannot be devastated when we know the joy she now experiences. She has entered a new life where time is no more.  Her joy will never end.

I was blessed to be with her when she drew her last breath here on earth.  It's hard to express the deep mystery that envelopes the moment of death. I believe her movement into her eternal home was a gentle, good journey.  I feel privileged to have witnessed it.

End-of-life Care

The strides made in medical care over my lifetime are incredible.  We have been able to prolong life through ever evolving drug discoveries and medical technology.  Still, at some point, death takes us all.  So for children of aging parents, the question is, how much technology and medical care should be used in the name of prolonging life in someone well advanced in years - someone unable to make those decisions for themselves?  What comfort level should we aiming for?  Are we OK with our loved one struggling in anxiety and anger with the paraphernalia used to pump in life-giving substances and extract waste? 

What does it mean to allow a loved one to die with dignity?  Does the level of alertness give us the clues to follow?  Do we only make the hard decisions if someone is comatose? 

I have been spending the past few days at my mother's hospital bedside as she continually fights with her oxygen mask.  She has been incoherent and for the most part, unresponsive - we can't understand her - although she opens her eyes and nods to my questions. She has dementia, and her ability to speak has become much less recently.  Though she understands some things, she quickly forgets I've told her that she needs the oxygen to get better.

This morning, she's more alert.  Which makes her even more anxious about the oxygen mask, and now the intravenous as well.

Last night I spoke to a friend who has been visiting my mom for years...they had a close connection years ago, and she and her husband have been ever faithful to care for and about Mom.  We talked about Mom's constant irritability with the oxygen mask.  She said, "You know, your mom has the right to refuse the oxygen.  She has a right to be comfortable."  She said this with much love, as she referred to a visit they made with Mom at the nursing home, just before she entered hospital.  She spoke about the peaceful look on Mom's face as they visited, even though she was unable to speak.

Her words give me cause for thought.  How much do we fight with her to prolong her time in this, her 10th decade?  Will removing the oxygen and IV give her a certain peace, or will she struggle then, even more, against breath and dehydration?

Her increased alertness also makes for her desire to get up on her own, and want to 'go home' - back to the nursing home.  It's difficult to see your loved one tied down in a chair or bed - what's to be done?  What is the quality of life for someone requiring sedation to keep their anxiety level down? 

Is the struggle I feel more about appeasing my discomfort or hers?

My mother has always been a woman of faith - we are assured that when she takes leave of this life, she will be completely healed and living fully and joyfully in the next.  This is no justification for any decisions that we make, but certainly colors how we look at life and death.

We will see how today goes and speak with the physician tomorrow.  In the meantime, the dichotomy in my mind continues to churn, for there are no easy answers.

Faith and Fear - a daughter's view

I am reading Mary Gordon's Circling My Mother, a memoir set within a historical time frame that closely intersects the time period of my mother's life and mine.  Reading this book gives rise to the question of who my mother was and is.  Like her mother, mine, too, is afflicted with dementia.

As I read Gordon's probing evaluation of her relationship with her mother, it strikes me that much of my mother's actions may have been attributed to fear.  This has never really occurred to me before.  Perhaps I was always either too close to an emotionally charged situation or sadly, never had the inclination to discover what was behind her responses to certain situations.

She was afraid of horses, narrow mountain roads and my father's impatience with farm animals.  She was afraid that bears would come get her when she and my dad went camping. She overcame her fear of driving by getting her drivers' license when she was well into her 30's.  When we moved a province away, she was always afraid this was the last time she'd see us.  During my growing up years, her greatest fear expressed itself in frequent lectures (with much sighing and rolling of the eyes on my part) about 'what boys want' and how unbearable it would be for her if one of her girls came home pregnant.  She was determined that our family's reputation would always be untainted by that situation.

At the same time, she spoke of God's faithfulness, assuring us that he would always be with us - which was comforting - and that he always sees us (which was not always comforting).  From my perspective, her greatest fear also translated into lack of trust in my integrity.  At the time, it almost made me want to realize her greatest fear, to spite her.  But the faith she nurtured within me also prevented me from following through.  (I often wondered if she would have found it in her heart to be supportive in such a situation.)

This great fear of hers resulted in arguments about the length of my skirts, where I went and with whom (and when), and curfews.  Today, I can see the wisdom of some of these restrictions.  I was basically naive, and still tend to be blinded to the darker side of people.

Others would never have known she was fearful, since she was always full of jokes and trickery, and had a great sense of humor.  She was hospitable and extroverted.  School friends and neighborhood kids were welcome at our house. Another person at the table was never a problem.  Later, she always played games with her grand kids, as she had done with us and our friends - she loved cards - especially crib.

It sometimes saddens me that my mother and I did not have the close mother/daughter relationship that would have allowed us to discuss any subject - openly and without judgement or defensiveness.

Like Gordon's mother, mine is more of the child now; she doesn't remember my name (although she recognizes me as someone dear to her), and she's unable to hold a conversation.  She doesn't always remember what to do with a fork or spoon, and doesn't remember family names or relationships.  On good days though, her sense of humor is still evident by the glint in her eyes as she does a 'happy dance' behind her walker.

I have long ago given over the tension that once existed between us and trust that a solid faith still resides deep with her - a faith that will not fail her in her last days.